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THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 


THE  BORZOI 
RUSSIAN  TRANSLATIONS 

I     TARAS  BULB  A. 

By  N.  V.  Gogol. 

II    THE  SIGNAL. 

By  W.  M.  Garshin. 

III  CHELKASH. 

By  Maxim  Gorky 

IV  THE  LITTLE  ANGEL. 

By  Leonid  Andreyev. 

V    THE  PRECIPICE. 

By  Ivan  Goncharov. 

VI     A  HERO  OF  OUR  TIME. 

By  M.  Y.  Lermontov. 

VII    THE   OLD   HOUSE. 

By  Feodor  Sologub. 

VIII    THE  LITTLE  DEMON. 

By  Feodor  Sologub. 

IX    THE  MEMOIRS  OF  A  PHYSICIAN. 
By  Vikenty  Veressayev. 

X    THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER. 

By  Leonid  Andreyev. 

Other  Volumes  in  Preparation. 


THE 

CRUSHED  FLOWER 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 

TRANSLATED     FROM 
THE     RUSSIAN     OF 

LEONID  ANDREYEV 

By    HERMAN     BERNSTEIN 


ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 
NEW  YORK  MCMXVII 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

AU  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THR  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


My 


CONTENTS 


PAOB 

THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 11 

A  STORY  WHICH  WILL  NEVER  BE  FINISHED     .     .     35 

ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  CRUCIFIXION 43 

THE    SERPENT'S    STORY 49 

LOVE,  FAITH  AND  HOPE 56 

THE    OCEAN 64 

JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS 168 

"THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"     .     .     .     .269 


1  Rr;<^i"-M 

C  r  i' 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

CHAPTER  I 

HIS  name  was  Yura. 
He  was  six  years  old,  and  the  world  was 
to  him  enormous,  alive  and  bewitchingly 
mysterious.  He  knew  the  sky  quite  well.  He  knew 
its  deep  azure  by  day,  and  the  white-breasted,  half 
silvery,  half  golden  clouds  slowly  floating  by.  He 
often  watched  them  as  he  lay  on  his  back  upon  the 
grass  or  upon  the  roof.  But  he  did  not  know  the  stars 
so  well,  for  he  went  to  bed  early.  He  knew  well  and 
remembered  only  one  star — the  green,  bright  and  very 
attentive  star  that  rises  in  the  pale  sky  just  before  you 
go  to  bed,  and  that  seemed  to  be  the  only  star  so  large 
in  the  whole  sky. 

But  best  of  all,  he  knew  the  earth  in  the  yard,  in  the 
street  and  in  the  garden,  with  all  its  inexhaustible 
wealth  of  stones,  of  velvety  grass,  of  hot  sand  and  of 
that  wonderfully  varied,  mysterious  and  delightful 
dust  which  grown  people  did  not  notice  at  all  from 
the  height  of  their  enormous  size.  And  in  falling 
asleep,  as  the  last  bright  image  of  the  passing  day,  he 
took  along  to  his  dreams  a  bit  of  hot,  rubbed  off  stone 
bathed  in  sunshine  or  a  thick  layer  of  tenderly  tick- 
ling, burning  dust. 

When  he  went  with  his  mother  to  the  centre  of  the 
11 


1^  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

city  along  the  large  streets,  he  remembered  best  of  all, 
upon  his  return,  the  wide,  flat  stones  upon  which  his 
steps  and  his  feet  seemed  terribly  small,  like  two  little 
boats.  And  even  the  multitude  of  revolving  wheels 
and  horses'  heads  did  not  impress  themselves  so  clearly 
upon  his  memory  as  this  new  and  unusually  interest- 
ing appearance  of  the  ground. 

Everything  was  enormous  to  him — the  fences,  the 
dogs  and  the  people — but  that  did  not  at  all  surprise 
or  frighten  him;  that  only  made  everything  particu- 
larly interesting;  that  transformed  life  into  an  unin- 
terrupted miracle.  According  to  his  measures,  vari- 
ous objects  seemed  to  him  as  follows: 

His  father — ten  yards  tall. 

His  mother — three  yards. 

The  neighbour's  angry  dog — thirty  yards. 

Their  own  dog — ten  yards,  like  papa. 

Their  house  of  one  story  was  very,  very  tall — a  mile. 

The  distance  between  one  side  of  the  street  and 
the  other — two  miles. 

Their  garden  and  the  trees  in  their  garden  seemed 
immense,  infinitely  tall. 

The  city — a  million — just  how  much  he  did  not 
know. 

And  everything  else  appeared  to  him  in  the  same 
way.  He  knew  many  people,  large  and  small,  but 
he  knew  and  appreciated  better  the  little  ones  with 
whom  he  could  speak  of  everything.  The  grown 
people  behaved  so  foolishly  and  asked  such  absurd, 
dull  questions  about  things  that  everybody  knew,  tliat 
it  was  necessary  for  him  also  to  make  believe  that  he 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  13 

was  foolish.  He  had  to  lisp  and  give  nonsensical  an- 
swers; and,  of  course,  he  felt  like  running  away  from, 
them  as  soon  as  possible.  But  there  were  over  him 
and  around  him  and  within  him  two  entirely  extraor- 
dinary persons,  at  once  big  and  small,  wise  and  fool- 
ish, at  once  his  own  and  strangers — ^his  father  and 
mother. 

They  must  have  been  very  good  people,  otherwise 
they  could  not  have  been  his  father  and  mother;  at 
any  rate,  they  were  charming  and  unlike  other  people. 
He  could  say  with  certainty  that  his  father  was  very 
great,  terribly  wise,  that  he  possessed  immense  power, 
which  made  him  a  person  to  be  feared  somewhat,  and 
it  was  interesting  to  talk  with  him  about  unusual 
things,  placing  his  hand  in  father's  large,  strong, 
warm  hand  for  safety 's  sake. 

Mamma  was  not  so  large,  and  sometimes  she  was 
even  very  small ;  she  was  very  kind  hearted,  she  kissed 
tenderly;  she  understood  very  well  how  he  felt  when 
he  had  a  pain  in  his  little  stomach,  and  only  with  her 
could  he  relieve  his  heart  when  he  grew  tired  of  life, 
of  his  games  or  when  he  was  the  victim  of  some  cruel 
injustice.  And  if  it  was  unpleasant  to  cry  in  father's 
presence,  and  even  dangerous  to  be  capricious,  his 
tears  had  an  unusually  pleasant  taste  in  mother's  pres- 
ence and  tilled  his  soul  with  a  peculiar  serene  sadness, 
which  he  could  find  neither  in  his  games  nor  in  laugh- 
ter, nor  even  in  the  reading  of  the  most  terrible  fairy 
tales. 

It  should  be  added  that  mamma  was  a  beautiful 
womaQ  and  that  everybody  was  itt  love  with  her, 


14  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

That  was  good,  for  he  felt  proud  of  it,  but  that  was 
also  bad — for  he  feared  that  she  might  be  taken  away. 
And  every  time  one  of  the  men,  one  of  those  enormous, 
invariably  inimical  men  who  were  busy  with  them- 
selves, looked  at  mamma  fixedly  for  a  long  time,  Yura 
felt  bored  and  uneasy.  He  felt  like  stationing  himself 
between  him  and  mamma,  and  no  matter  where  he 
went  to  attend  to  his  own  affairs,  something  was  draw- 
ing him  back. 

Sometimes  mamma  would  utter  a  bad,  terrifying 
phrase : 

"Why  are  you  forever  staying  around  here?  Go 
and  play  in  your  own  room." 

There  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  do  but  to  go 
away.  He  would  take  a  book  along  or  he  would  sit 
down  to  draw,  but  that  did  not  always  help  him. 
Sometimes  mamma  would  praise  him  for  reading  but 
sometimes  she  would  say  again: 

"You  had  better  go  to  your  own  room,  Yurochka. 
You  see,  you've  spilt  water  on  the  tablecloth  again; 
you  always  do  some  mischief  with  your  drawing." 

And  then  she  would  reproach  him  for  being  per- 
verse. But  he  felt  worst  of  all  when  a  dangerous  and 
suspicious  guest  would  come  when  Yura  had  to  go  to 
bed.  But  when  he  lay  down  in  his  bed  a  sense  of 
easiness  came  over  him  and  he  felt  as  though  all  was 
ended;  the  lights  went  out,  life  stopped;  everything 
slept. 

In  all  such  cases  with  suspicious  men  Yura  felt 
vaguely  but  very  strongly  that  he  was  replacing  father 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  15 

in  some  way.  And  that  made  him  somewhat  like  a 
grown  man — ^he  was  in  a  bad  frame  of  mind,  like  a 
grown  person,  but,  therefore,  he  was  unusually  calcu- 
lating, wise  and  serious.  Of  coursp,  he  said  nothing 
about  this  to  any  one,  for  no  one  would  understand 
him;  but,  by  the  manner  in  which  he  caressed  father 
when  he  arrived  and  sat  down  on  his  knees  patronis- 
ingly,  one  could  see  in  the  boy  a  man  who  fulfilled  his 
duty  to  the  end.  At  times  father  could  not  under- 
stand him  and  would  simply  send  him  away  to  play 
or  to  sleep — Yura  never  felt  offended  and  went  away 
with  a  feeling  of  great  satisfaction.  He  did  not  feel 
the  need  of  being  understood;  he  even  feared  it.  At 
times  he  would  not  tell  under  any  circumstances  why 
he  was  crying;  at  times  he  would  make  believe  that 
he  was  absent  minded,  that  he  heard  nothing,  that  he 
was  occupied  with  his  own  affairs,  but  he  heard  and 
understood. 

And  he  had  a  terrible  secret.  He  had  noticed  that 
these  extraordinary  and  charming  people,  father  and 
mother,  were  sometimes  unhappy  and  were  hiding  this 
from  everybody.  Therefore  he  was  also  concealing 
his  discovery,  and  gave  everybody  the  impression  that 
all  was  well.  Many  times  he  found  mamma  crying 
somewhere  in  a  corner  in  the  drawing  room,  or  in  the 
bedroom — his  own  room  was  next  to  her  bedroom — 
and  one  night,  very  late,  almost  at  dawn,  he  heard  the 
terribly  loud  and  angry  voice  of  father  and  the  weep- 
ing voice  of  mother.  He  lay  a  long  time,  holding 
his  breath,  but  then  he  was  so  terrified  by  that  un- 


16  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

usual  conversation  in  the  middle  of  the  night  that  he 
could  not  restrain  himself  and  he  asked  his  nurse  in 
a  soft  voice : 

"What  are  they  saying?" 

And  the  nurse  answered  quickly  in  a  whisper: 

^* Sleep,  sleep.     They  are  not  saying  anything." 

"I  am  coming  over  to  your  bed." 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  Such  a  big 
boy!" 

"I  am  coming  over  to  your  bed." 

Thus,  terribly  afraid  lest  they  should  be  heard,  they 
spoke  in  whispers  and  argued  in  the  dark;  and  the 
end  was  that  Yura  moved  over  to  nurse's  bed,  upon 
her  rough,  but  cosy  and  warm  blanket. 

In  the  morning  papa  amd  mamma  were  very  cheer- 
ful and  Yura  pretended  that  he  believed  them  and 
it  seemed  that  he  really  did  believe  them.  But  that 
same  evening,  and  perhaps  it  was  another  evening, 
he  noticed  his  father  crying.  It  happened  in  the 
following  way:  He  was  passing  his  father's  study, 
and  the  door  was  half  open ;  he  heard  a  noise  and  he 
looked  in  quietly — father  lay  face  downward  upon  his 
couch  and  cried  aloud.  There  was  no  one  else  in 
the  room.  Yura  went  away,  turned  about  in  his  room 
and  came  back — the  door  was  still  half  open,  no  one 
but  father  was  in  the  room,  and  he  was  still  sobbing. 
If  he  cried  quietly,  Yura  could  understand  it,  but  he 
sobbed  loudly,  he  moaned  in  a  heavy  voice  and  his  teeth 
were  gnashing  terribly.  He  lay  there,  covering  the 
entire  couch,  hiding  his  head  under  his  broad 
shoulders,  sniflfing  heavily — and  that  was  beyond  his 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  17 

understanding.  And  on  the  table,  on  the  large  table 
covered  with  pencils,  papers  and  a  wealth  of  other 
things,  stood  the  lamp  burning  with  a  red  flame,  and 
smoking — a  flat,  greyish  black  strip  of  smoke  was  com- 
ing out  and  bending  in  all  directions. 

Suddenly  father  heaved  a  loud  sigh  and  stirred. 
Yura  walked  away  quietly.  And  then  all  was  the  same 
as  ever.  No  one  would  have  learned  of  this;  but  the 
image  of  the  enormous,  mysterious  and  charming  man 
who  was  his  father  and  who  was  crying  remained  in 
Yura's  memory  as  something  dreadful  and  extremely 
serious.  And,  if  there  were  things  of  which  he  did 
not  feel  like  speaking,  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
say  nothing  of  this,  as  though  it  were  something  sacred 
and  terrible,  and  in  that  silence  he  must  love  father  all 
the  more.  But  he  must  love  so  that  father  should  not 
notice  it,  and  he  must  give  the  impression  that  it  is 
very  jolly  to  live  on  earth. 

And  Yura  succeeded  in  accomplishing  all  this. 
Father  did  not  notice  that  he  loved  him  in  a  special 
manner;  and  it  was  really  jolly  to  live  on  earth,  so 
there  was  no  need  for  him  to  make  believe.  The 
threads  of  his  soul  stretched  themselves  to  all — to  the 
sun,  to  the  knife  and  the  cane  he  was  peeling;  to  the 
beautiful  and  enigmatic  distance  which  he  saw  from 
the  top  of  the  iron  roof;  and  it  was  hard  for  him  to 
separate  himself  from  all  that  was  not  himself.  "When 
the  grass  had  a  strong  and  fragrant  odour  it  seemed  to 
him  that  it  was  he  who  had  such  a  fragrant  odour,  and 
when  he  lay  down  in  his  bed,  however  strange  it  may 
seem,  together  with  him  in  his  little  bed  lay  down  the 


18  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

enormous  yard,  the  street,  the  slant  threads  of  the  rain 
and  the  muddy  pools  and  the  whole,  enormous,  live, 
fascinating,  mysterious  world.  Thus  all  fell  asleep 
with  him  and  thus  all  awakened  with  him,  and  together 
with  him  they  all  opened  their  eyes.  And  there  was 
one  striking  fact,  worthy  of  the  prof oundest  reflection 
— if  he  placed  a  stick  somewhere  in  the  garden  in  the 
evening  it  was  there  also  in  the  morning;  and  the 
knuckle-bones  which  he  hid  in  a  box  in  the  barn  re- 
mained there,  although  it  was  dark  and  he  went  to 
his  room  for  the  night.  Because  of  this  he  felt  a 
natural  need  for  hiding  under  his  pillow  all  that  was 
most  valuable  to  him.  Since  things  stood  or  lay  there 
alone,  they  might  also  disappear  of  their  accord,  he 
reasoned.  And  in  general  it  was  so  wonderful  and 
pleasant  that  the  nurse  and  the  house  and  the  sun 
existed  not  only  yesterday,  but  every  day ;  he  felt  like 
laughing  and  singing  aloud  when  he  awoke. 

When  people  asked  him  what  his  name  was  he 
answered  promptly: 

"Yura." 

But  some  people  were  not  satisfied  with  this  alone, 
and  they  wanted  to  know  his  full  name — and  then  he 
replied  with  a  certain  effort: 

"Yura  Mikhailovich." 

And  after  a  moment's  thought  he  added: 

*'Yura  Mikhailovich  Pushkarev." 


CHAPTER  II 

AN  unusual  day  arrived.  It  was  mother's  birth- 
day. Guests  were  expected  in  the  evening; 
.  military  music  was  to  play,  and  in  the  garden 
and  upon  the  terrace  parti-coloured  lanterns  were  to 
burn,  and  Yura  need  not  go  to  bed  at  9  o'clock  but 
could  stay  up  as  late  as  he  liked. 

Yura  got  up  when  all  were  still  sleeping.  He 
dressed  himself  and  jumped  out  quickly  with  the  ex- 
pectation of  miracles.  But  he  was  unpleasantly  sur- 
prised— the  rooms  were  in  the  same  disorder  as  usual 
in  the  morning;  the  cook  and  the  chambermaid 
were  still  sleeping  and  the  door  was  closed  with  a  hook 
— it  was  hard  to  believe  that  the  people  would  stir  and 
commence  to  run  about,  and  that  the  rooms  would 
assume  a  holiday  appearance,  and  he  feared  for  the 
fate  of  the  festival.  It  was  still  worse  in  the  garden. 
The  paths  were  not  swept  and  there  was  not  a  single 
lantern  there.  He  grew  very  uneasy.  Fortunately, 
Yevmen,  the  coachman,  was  washing  the  carriage  be- 
hind the  bam  in  the  back  yard  and  though  he  had 
done  this  frequently  before,  and  though  there  was 
nothing  unusual  about  his  appearance,  Yura  clearly 
felt  something  of  the  holiday  in  the  decisive  way  in 
which  the  coachman  splashed  the  water  from  the 
bucket  with  his  sinewy  arms,  on  which  the  sleeves  of 

19 


20  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

his  red  blouse  were  rolled  up  to  his  elbows.  Yevmen 
only  glanced  askance  at  Yura,  and  suddenly  Yura 
seemed  to  have  noticed  for  the  first  time  his  broad, 
black,  wavy  beard  and  thought  respectfully  that 
Yevmen  was  a  very  worthy  man.     He  said : 

' '  Good  morning,  Yevmen. ' ' 

Then  all  moved  very  rapidly.  Suddenly  the  janitor 
appeared  and  started  to  sweep  the  paths,  suddenly 
the  window  in  the  kitchen  was  thrown  open  and 
women's  voices  were  heard  chattering;  suddenly  the 
chambermaid  rushed  out  with  a  little  rug  and  started 
to  beat  it  with  a  stick,  as  though  it  were  a  dog.  All 
commenced  to  stir ;  and  the  events,  starting  simultane- 
ously in  different  places,  rushed  with  such  mad  swift- 
ness that  it  was  impossible  to  catch  up  with  them. 
While  the  nurse  was  giving  Yura  his  tea,  people  were 
beginning  to  hang  up  the  wires  for  the  lanterns  in  the 
garden,  and  while  the  wires  were  being  stretched  in 
the  garden,  the  furniture  was  rearranged  completely 
in  the  drawing  room,  and  while  the  furniture  was 
rearranged  in  the  drawing  room,  Yevmen,  the  coach- 
man, harnessed  the  horse  and  drove  out  of  the  yard 
with  a  certain  special,  mysterious  mission. 

Yura  succeeded  in  concentrating  himself  for  some 
time  with  the  greatest  difficulty.  Together  with  father 
he  was  hanging  up  the  lanterns.  And  father  was 
charming ;  he  laughed,  jested,  put  Yura  on  the  ladder ; 
he  himself  climbed  the  thin,  creaking  rungs  of  the  lad- 
der, and  finally  both  fell  down  together  with  the  lad- 
der upon  the  grass,  but  they  were  not  hurt.  Yura 
jumped  up,  while  father  remained  lying  on  the  grass, 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  21 

his  hands  thrown  back  under  his  head,  looking  with 
half -closed  eyes  at  the  shining,  infinite  azure  of  the 
sky.  Thus  lying  on  the  grass,  with  a  serious  expres- 
sion on  his  face,  apparently  not  in  the  mood  for  play, 
father  looked  very  much  like  Gulliver  longing  for 
his  land  of  giants.  Yura  recalled  something  uhpleas- 
ant;  but  to  cheer  his  father  up  he  sat  down  astride 
upon  his  knees  and  said ; 

"Do  you  remember,  father,  when  I  was  a  little  boy 
I  used  to  sit  down  on  your  knees  and  you  used  to 
shake  me  like  a  horse?" 

But  before  he  had  time  to  finish  he  lay  with  his  nose 
on  the  grass ;  Ije  was  lifted  in  the  air  and  thrown  down 
with  force — father  had  thrown  him  high  up  with  his 
knees,  according  to  his  old  habit.  Yura  felt  offended ; 
but  father,  entirely  ignoring  his  anger,  began  to  tickle 
him  under  his  armpits,  so  that  Yura  had  to  laugh 
against  his  will ;  and  then  father  picked  him  up  like 
a  little  pig  by  the  legs  and  carried  him  to  the  terrace. 
And  mamma  was  frightened. 

"What  are  you  doing?  The  blood  will  rush  to  his 
head!" 

After  which  Yura  found  himself  standing  on  his 
legs,  red  faced,  dishevelled,  feeling  very  miserable  and 
terribly  happy  at  the  same  time. 

The  day  was  rushing  fast,  like  a  cat  that  is  chased 
by  a  dog.  Like  forerunners  of  the  coming  great 
festival,  certain  messengers  appeared  with  notes,  won- 
derfully tasty  cakes  were  brought,  the  dressmaker 
came  and  locked  herself  in  with  mamma  in  the  bed- 
room;  then   two   gentlemen   arrived,   then   another 


22  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

gentleman,  then  a  lady — evidently  the  entire  city  was 
in  a  state  of  agitation.  Yura  examined  the  mes- 
sengers as  though  they  were  strange  people  from 
another  world,  and  walked  before  them  with  an  air 
of  importance  as  the  son  of  the  lady  whose  birthday 
was  to  be  celebrated ;  he  met  the  gentlemen,  he  escorted 
the  cakes,  and  toward  midday  he  was  so  exhausted 
that  he  suddenly  started  to  despise  life.  He  quar- 
relled with  the  nurse  and  lay  down  in  his  bed  face 
downward  in  order  to  have  his  revenge  on  her;  but 
he  fell  asleep  immediately.  He  awoke  with  the  same 
feeling  of  hatred  for  life  and  a  desire  for  revenge, 
but  after  having  looked  at  things  with  his  eyes,  which 
he  washed  with  cold  water,  he  felt  that  both  the  world 
and  life  were  so  fascinating  that  they  were  even  funny. 

When  they  dressed  Yura  in  a  red  silk  rustling 
blouse,  and  he  thus  clearly  became  part  of  the  festival, 
and  he  found  On  the  terrace  a  long,  snowwhite  table 
glittering  with  glass  dishes,  he  again  commenced  to 
spin  about  in  the  whirlpool  of  the  onrushing  events. 

"The  musicians  have  arrived!  The  musicians  have 
arrived!"  he  cried,  looking  for  father  or  mother,  or 
for  any  one  who  would  treat  the  arrival  of  the  musi- 
cians with  proper  seriousness.  Father  and  mother 
were  sitting  in  the  garden — in  the  arbour  which  was 
thickly  surrounded  with  wild  grapes — maintaining  " 
silence;  the  beautiful  head  of  mother  lay  on  father's 
shoulder;  although  father  embraced  her,  he  seemed 
very  serious,  and  he  showed  no  enthusiasm  when  he 
was  told  of  the  arrival  of  the  musicians.  Both  treated 
their   arrival   with   inexplicable   indifference,   which 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  23 

called  forth  a  feeling  of  sadness  in  Yura.  But  mamma 
stirred  and  said: 

"Let  me  go.    I  must  go.'* 

"Remember,"  said  father,  referring  to  something 
which  Yura  did  not  understand  but  which  resounded 
in  his  heart  with  a  light,  gnawing  alarm. 

"Stop.  Aren't  you  ashamed?"  mother  laughed, 
and  this  laughter  made  Yura  feel  still  more  alarmed, 
especially  since  father  did  not  laugh  but  maintained 
the  same  serious  and  mournful  appearance  of  Gulliver 
pining  for  his  native  land.  .  .  . 

But  soon  all  this  was  forgotten,  for  the  wonderful 
festival  had  begun  in  all  its  glory,  mystery  and 
grandeur.  The  guests  came  fast,  and  there  was  no 
longer  any  place  at  the  white  table,  which  had  been 
deserted  but  a  while  before.  Voices  resounded,  and 
laughter  and  merry  jests,  and  the  music  began  to 
play.  And  on  the  deserted  paths  of  the  garden  where 
but  a  while  ago  Yura  had  wandered  alone,  imagining 
himself  a  prince  in  quest  of  the  sleeping  princess,  now 
appeared  people  with  cigarettes  and  with  loud  free 
speech.  Yura  met  the  first  guests  at  the  front  en- 
trance; he  looked  at  each  one  carefully,  and  he  made 
the  acquaintance  and  even  the  friendship  of  some  of 
them  on  the  way  from  the  corridor  to  the  table. 

Thus  he  managed  to  become  friendly  with  the  officer, 
whose  name  was  Mitenka — a  grown  man  whose  name 
was  Mitenka — ^he  said  so  himself.  Mitenka  had  a 
heavy  leather  sword,  which  was  as  cold  as  a  snake, 
which  could  not  be  taken  out — but  Mitenka  lied ;  the 
sword  was  only  fastened  at  the  handle  with  a  silver 


24  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

cord,  but  it  could  be  taken  out  very  nicely ;  and  Yura 
felt  vexed  because  the  stupid  Mitenka  instead  of  carry- 
ing his  sword,  as  he  always  did,  placed  it  in  a  corner 
in  the  hallway  as  a  cane.  But  even  in  the  corner  the 
sword  stood  out  alone — one  could  see  at  once  that  it 
was  a  sword.  Another  thing  that  displeased  Yura 
was  that  another  officer  came  with  Mitenka,  an  officer 
whom  Yura  knew  and  whose  name  was  also  Yura 
Mikhailovich.  Yura  thought  that  the  officer  must 
have  been  named  so  for  fun.  That  wrong  Yura 
Mikhailovich  had  visited  them  several  times;  he  even 
came  once  on  horseback ;  but  most  of  the  time  he  came 
just  before  little  Yura  had  to  go  to  bed.  And  little 
Yura  went  to  bed,  while  the  unreal  Yura  Mikhailovich 
remained  with  mamma,  and  that  caused  him  to  feel 
alarmed  and  sad;  he  was  afraid  that  mamma  might 
be  deceived.  He  paid  no  attention  to  the  real  Yura 
Mikhailovich:  and  now,  walking  beside  Mitenka,  he 
did  not  seem  to  realise  his  guilt;  he  adjusted  his 
moustaches  and  maintained  silence.  He  kissed  mam- 
ma's hand,  and  that  seemed  repulsive  to  little  Yura; 
but  the  stupid  Mitenka  also  kissed  mamma's  hand, 
and  thereby  set  everything  aright. 

But  soon  the  guests  arrived  in  such  numbers,  and 
there  was  such  a  variety  of  them,  as  if  they  had  fallen 
straight  from  the  sky.  And  some  of  them  seemed 
to  have  fallen  near  the  table,  while  others  seemed 
to  have  fallen  into  the  garden.  Suddenly  several 
students  and  ladies  appeared  in  the  path.  The  ladies 
were  ordinary,  but  the  students  had  holes  cut  at  the 
left  side  of  their  white  coats— for  tbeir  swords.    But 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  S5 

they  did  not  bring  tlieir  swords  along,  no  doubt  because 
of  their  pride — they  were  all  very  proud.  And  the 
ladies  rushed  over  to  Yura  and  began  to  kiss  him. 
Then  the  most  beautiful  of  the  ladies,  whose  name  was 
Ninochka,  took  Yura  to  the  swing  and»swung  him  until 
she  threw  him  down.  He  hurt  his  left  leg  near  the 
knee  very  painfully  and  even  stained  his  little  white 
pants  in  that  spot,  but  of  course  he  did  not  cry,  and 
somehow  his  pain  had  quickly  disappeared  somewhere. 
At  this  time  father  was  leading  an  important-looking 
bald-headed  old  man  in  the  garden,  and  he  asked 
Yurochka, 

"Did  you  get  hurt?" 

But  as  the  old  man  also  smiled  and  also  spoke, 
Yurochka  did  not  kiss  father  and  did  not  even  answer 
him ;  but  suddenly  he  seemed  to  have  lost  his  mind — 
he  commenced  to  squeal  for  joy  and  to  run  around. 
If  he  had  a  bell  as  large  as  the  whole  city  he  would 
have  rung  that  bell;  but  as  he  had  no  such  bell  he 
climbed  the  linden  tree,  which  stood  near  the  terrace, 
and  began  to  show  off.  The  guests  below  were  laugh- 
ing and  mamma  was  shouting,  and  suddenly  the  music 
began  to  play,  and  Yura  soon  stood  in  front  of  the  or- 
chestra, spreading  his  legs  apart  and,  according  to  his 
old  but  long  forgotten  habit,  put  his  finger  into  his 
mouth.  The  sounds  seemed  to  strike  at  him  all  at 
once ;  they  roared  and  thundered ;  they  made  his  legs 
tingle,  and  they  shook  his  jaw.  They  played  so  loudly 
that  there  was  nothing  but  the  orchestra  on  the  whole 
earth — everything  else  had  vanished.  The  brass  ends 
of  some  of  the  trumpets  even  spread  apart  and  opened 


26  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

wide  from  the  great  roariijg;  Yura  thought  that  it 
would  be  interesting  to  make  a  military  helmet  out  of 
such  a  trumpet. 

Suddenly  Yura  grew  sad.  The  music  was  still  roar- 
ing, but  now  it  was  somewhere  far  away,  while  within 
him  all  became  quiet,  and  it  was  growing  ever  more 
and  more  quiet.  Heaving  a  deep  sigh,  Yura  looked  at 
the  sky — it  was  so  high — and  with  slow  footsteps  he 
started  out  to  make  the  rounds  of  the  holiday,  of  all  its 
confused  boundaries,  possibilities  and  distances.  And 
everywhere  he  turned  out  to  be  too  late ;  he  wanted  to 
see  how  the  tables  for  card  playing  would  be  arranged, 
but  the  tables  were  ready  and  people  had  been  playing 
cards  for  a  long  time  when  he  came  up.  He  touched 
the  chalk  and  the  brush  near  his  father  and  his  father 
immediately  chased  him  away.  What  of  that,  what 
difference  did  that  make  to  him?  He  wanted  to  see 
how  they  would  start  to  dance  and  he  was  sure  that 
they  would  dance  in  the  parlour,  but  they  had  already 
commenced  to  dance,  not  in  the  parlour,  but  under  the 
linden  trees.  He  wanted  to  see  how  they  would  light 
the  lanterns,  but  the  lanterns  had  all  been  lit  already, 
every  one  of  them,  to  the  very  last  of  the  last.  They 
lit  up  of  themselves  like  stars. 

Mamma  danced  best  of  all. 


CHAPTER  III 

NIGHT  arrived  in  the  form  of  red,  green  and 
yellow  lanterns.  While  there  were  no  lan- 
terns, there  was  no  night.  And  now  it  lay 
everywhere.  It  crawled  into  the  bushes;  it  covered 
the  entire  garden  with  darkness,  as  with  water,  and  it 
covered  the  sky.  Everything  looked  as  beautiful  as 
the  very  best  fairy  tale  with  coloured  pictures.  At 
one  place  the  house  had  disappeared  entirely ;  only  the 
square  window  made  of  red  light  remained.  And  the 
chimney  of  the  house  was  visible  and  there  a  certain 
spark  glistened,  looked  down  and  seemed  to  think  of 
its  own  affairs.  What  affairs  do  chimneys  have? 
Various  affairs. 

Of  the  people  in  the  garden  only  their  voices  re- 
mained. As  long  as  some  one  walked  near  the  lanterns 
he  could  be  seen;  but  as  soon  as  he  walked  away  all 
seemed  to  melt,  melt,  melt,  and  the  voice  above  the 
ground  laughed,  talked,  floating  fearlessly  in  the  dark- 
ness. But  the  officers  and  the  students  could  be  seen 
even  in  the  dark — a  white  spot,  and  above  it  a  small 
light  of  a  cigarette  and  a  big  voice. 

And  now  the  most  joyous  thing  commenced  for 
Yura — the  fairy  tale.  The  people  and  the  festival  and 
the  lanterns  remained  on  earth,  while  he  soared  away, 
transformed  into  air,  melting  in  the  night  like  a  grain 

27 


^8  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

of  dust.  The  great  mystery  of  the  night  became  his 
mystery,  and  his  little  heart  yearned  for  still  more 
mystery ;  in  its  solitude  his  heart  yearned  for  the  fu- 
sion of  life  and  death.  That  was  Yura's  second  mad- 
ness that  evening — he  became  invisible.  Although  he 
could  enter  the  kitchen  as  others  did,  he  climbed  with 
difficulty  upon  the  roof  of  the  cellar  over  which  the 
kitchen  window  was  flooded  with  light  and  he  looked 
in;  there  people  were  roasting  something,  busying 
themselves,  and  did  not  know  that  he  was  looking  at 
them — and  yet  he  saw  everything!  Then  he  went 
away  and  looked  at  papa's  and  mamma's  bedroom;  the 
room  was  empty ;  but  the  beds  had  already  been  made 
for  the  night  and  a  little  image  lamp  was  burning — ^he 
saw  that.  Then  he  looked  into  his  own  room ;  his  own 
bed  was  also  ready,  waiting  for  him.  He  passed  the 
room  where  they  were  playing  cards,  also  as  an  invisi- 
ble being,  holding  his  breath  and  stepping  so  lightly, 
as  though  he  were  soaring  in  the  air.  Only  when  he 
reached  the  garden,  in  the  dark,  he  drew  a  proper 
breath.  Then  he  resumed  his  quest.  He  came  over  to 
people  who  were  talking  so  near  him  that  he  could 
touch  them  with  his  hand,  and  yet  they  did  not  know 
that  he  was  there,  and  they  continued  to  speak  undis- 
turbed. He  watched  Ninochka  for  a  long  time  until 
he  learned  all  her  life — ^he  was  almost  trapped.  Ni- 
nochka even  exclaimed : 

' '  Yurochka,  is  that  you  ? ' ' 

He  lay  down  behind  a  bush  and  held  his  breath. 
Thus  Ninochka  was  deceived.  And  she  had  almost 
caught  him!    To  make  things  more  mysterious,  he 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  29 

started  to  crawl  instead  of  walk — now  the  alleys 
seemed  full  of  danger.  Thus  a  long  time  went  b}^ — ac- 
cording to  his  own  calculations  at  the  time,  ten  years 
went  by,  and  he  was  still  hiding  and  going  ever 
farther  away  from  the  people.  And  thus  he  went  so 
far  that  he  was  seized  with  dread — ^between  him  and 
the  past,  when  he  was  walking  like  everybody  else,  an 
abyss  was  formed  over  which  it  seemed  to  him  impos- 
sible to  cross.  Now  he  would  have  come  out  into  the 
light,  but  he  was  afraid — it  was  impossible;  all  was 
lost.  And  the  music  was  still  playing,  and  everybody 
had  forgotten  him,  even  mamma.  He  was  alone. 
There  was  a  breath  of  cold  from  the  dewy  grass ;  the 
gooseberry  bush  scratched  him,  the  darkness  could  not 
be  pierced  with  his  eyes,  and  there  was  no  end  to  it. 
O  Lord ! 

Without  any  definite  plan,  in  a  state  of  utter  de- 
spair, Yura  now  crawled  toward  a  mysterious,  faintly 
blinking  light.  Fortunately  it  turned  out  to  be  the 
same  arbour  which  was  covered  with  wild  grapes  and 
in  which  father  and  mother  had  sat  that  day.  He  did 
not  recognise  it  at  first !  Yes,  it  was  the  same  arbour. 
The  lights  of  the  lanterns  everywhere  had  gone  out, 
and  only  two  were  still  burning ;  a  yellow  little  lantern 
was  still  burning  brightly,  and  the  other,  a  yellow  one, 
too,  was  already  beginning  to  blink.  And  though 
there  was  no  wind,  that  lantern  quivered  from  its  own 
blinking,  and  everything  seemed  to  quiver  slightly. 
Yura  was  about  to  get  up  to  go  into  the  arbour  and 
there  begin  life  anew,  with  an  imperceptible  transi- 
tion from  the  old,  when  suddenly  he  heard  voices  in 


30  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

the  arbour.  His  mother  and  the  wrong  Yura  Mik- 
hailovich,  the  officer,  were  talking.  The  right  Yura 
grew  petrified  in  his  place ;  his  heart  stood  still ;  and 
his  breathing  ceased. 

JNIamma  said : 

' '  Stop.  You  have  lost  your  mind !  Somebody  may 
come  in  here." 

Yura  Mikhailovich  said: 

"And  you?" 

Mamma  said: 

* '  I  am  twenty-six  years  old  to-day.     I  am  old ! ' ' 

Yura  Mikhailovich  said: 

' '  He  does  not  know  anything.  Is  it  possible  that  he 
does  not  know  anything  ?  He  does  not  even  suspect  ? 
Listen,  does  he  shake  everybody 's  hand  so  firmly  ? ' ' 

Mamma  said : 

"What  a  question!  Of  course  he  does !  That  is — 
no,  not  everybody." 

Yura  Mikhailovich  said : 

"I  feel  sorry  for  him. ' ' 

Mamma  said : 

"For  him?" 

And  she  laughed  strangely.  Yurochka  understood 
that  they  were  talking  of  him,  of  Yurochka — but  what 
did  it  all  mean,  O  Lord  ?     And  why  did  she  laugh  ? 

Yura  Mikhailovich  said : 

' '  Where  are  you  going  ?     I  will  not  let  you  go. '  * 

Mamma  said : 

"You  offend  me.  Let  me  go!  No,  you  have  no 
right  to  kiss  me.    Let  me  go ! " 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  31 

They  became  silent.  Now  Yurochka  looked  through 
the  leaves  and  saw  that  the  officer  embraced  and  kissed 
mamma.  Then  they  spoke  of  something,  but  he  un- 
derstood nothing ;  he  heard  nothing ;  he  suddenly  for- 
got the  meaning  of  words.  And  he  even  forgot  the 
words  which  he  knew  and  used  before!  He  remem- 
bered but  one  word,  ** Mamma,"  and  he  whispered  it 
uninterruptedly  with  his  dry  lips,  but  that  word 
sounded  so  terrible,  more  terrible  than  anything. 
And  in  order  not  to  exclaim  it  against  his  will,  Yura 
covered  his  mouth  with  both  hands,  one  upon  the 
other,  and  thus  remained  until  the  officer  and  mamma 
went  out  of  the  arbour. 

When  Yura  came  into  the  room  where  the  people 
were  playing  cards,  the  serious,  bald-headed  man  was 
scolding  papa  for  something,  brandishing  the  chalk, 
talking,  shouting,  saying  that  father  did  not  act  as  he 
should  have  acted,  that  what  he  had  done  was  impos- 
sible, that  only  bad  people  did  such  things,  that  the 
old  man  would  never  again  play  with  father,  and  so 
on.  And  father  was  smiling,  waving  his  hands,  at- 
tempting to  say  something,  but  the  old  man  would  not 
let  him,  and  he  commenced  to  shout  more  loudly. 
And  the  old  man  was  a  little  fellow,  while  father  was 
big,  handsome  and  tall,  and  his  smile  was  sad,  like  that 
of  Gulliver  pining  for  his  native  land  of  tall  and  hand- 
some people. 

Of  course,  he  must  conceal  from  him — of  course,  he 
must  conceal  from  him  that  which  happened  in  the 
arbour,  and  he  must  love  him,  and  he  felt  that  he  loved 


32  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

him  so  much.  And  with  a  wild  cry  Yura  rushed  over 
to  the  bald-Jbeaded  old  man  and  began  to  beat  him 
with  his  fists  with  all  his  strength. 

' '  Don 't  you  dare  insult  him !  Don 't  you  dare  insult 
hun!" 

O  Lord,  what  has  happened!  Some  one  laughed; 
some  one  shouted.  Father  caught  Yura  in  his  arms, 
pressed  him  closely,  causing  him  pain,  and  cried : 

** Where  is  mother?     Call  mother." 

Then  Yura  was  seized  with  a  whirlwind  of  frantic 
tears,  of  desperate  sobs  and  mortal  anguish.  But 
through  his  frantic  tears  he  looked  at  his  father  to 
see  whether  he  had  guessed  it,  and  when  mother  came 
in  he  started  to  shout  louder  in  order  to  divert  any  sus- 
picion. But  he  did  not  go  to  her  arms ;  he  clung  more 
closely  to  father,  so  that  father  had  to  carry  him  into 
his  room.  But  it  seemed  that  he  himself  did  not  want 
to  part  with  Yura.  As  soon  as  he  carried  him  out  of 
the  room  where  the  guests  were  he  began  to  kiss  him, 
and  he  repeated : 

*  *  Oh,  my  dearest !     Oh,  my  dearest ! ' ' 

And  he  said  to  mamma,  who  walked  behind  him : 

"Just  think  of  the  boy!" 

Mamma  said : 

"That  is  all  due  to  your  whist.  You  were  scolding 
each  other  so,  that  the  child  was  frightened." 

Father  began  to  laugh,  and  answered : 

"Yes,  he  does  scold  harshly.  But  Yura,  oh,  what  a 
dear  boy ! ' ' 

In  his  room  Yura  demanded  that  father  himself  un- 
dress him. 


THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER  33 

"Now,  you  are  getting  cranky,"  said  father.  "I 
don't  know  how  to  do  it;  let  mamma  undress  you." 

' '  But  you  stay  here. ' ' 

Mamma  had  deft  fingers  and  she  undressed  him 
quickly,  and  while  she  was  removing  his  clothes  Yura 
held  father  by  the  hand.  He  ordered  the  nurse  out  of 
the  room ;  but  as  father  was  beginning  to  grow  angry, 
and  he  might  guess  what  had  happened  in  the  arbour, 
he  decided  to  let  him  go.  But  while  kissing  him  he 
said  cunningly: 

* '  He  will  not  scold  you  any  more,  will  he  ? " 

Papa  smiled.  Then  he  laughed,  kissed  Yura  once 
more  and  said : 

"No,  no.  And  if  he  does  I  will  throw  him  across 
the  fence." 

*  *  Please,  do, ' '  said  Yura.  ' '  You  can  do  it.  You  are 
so  strong." 

"Yes,  I  am  pretty  strong.  But  you  had  better 
sleep!     Mamma  will  stay  here  with  you  a  while." 

Mamma  said : 

"I  will  send  the  nurse  in.  I  must  attend  to  the 
supper." 

Father  shouted : 

"There  is  plenty  of  time  for  that!  You  can  stay 
a  while  with  the  child." 

But  mamma  insisted : 

' '  We  have  guests !     We  can 't  leave  them  that  way. ' ' 

But  father  looked  at  her  steadfastly,  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders.     Mamma  decided  to  stay. 

' '  Very  well,  then,  I  '11  stay  here.  But  see  that  Maria 
does  not  mix  up  the  wines." 


34  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Usually  it  was  thus :  when  mamma  sat  near  Yura  as 
he  was  falling  asleep  she  held  his  hand  until  the  last 
moment — that  is  what  she  usually  did.  But  now  she 
sat  as  though  she  were  all  alone,  as  though  Yura,  her 
son,  who  was  falling  asleep,  was  not  there  at  all — she 
folded  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  looked  into  the  dis- 
tance. To  attract  her  attention  Yura  stirred,  but 
mamma  said  briefly: 

"Sleep." 

And  she  continued  to  look.  But  when  Yura's  eyes 
had  grown  heavy  and  he  was  falling  asleep  with  all  his 
sorrow  and  his  tears,  mamma  suddenly  went  down  on 
her  knees  before  the  little  bed  and  kissed  Yura  firmly 
many,  many  times.  But  her  kisses  were  wet — hot  and 
wet. 

"Why  are  your  kisses  wet?  Are  you  crying?" 
muttered  Yura. 

"Yes,  I  am  crying." 

"You  must  not  cry." 

"Very  well,  I  won't,"  answered  mother  submis- 
sively. 

And  again  she  kissed  him  firmly,  firmly,  frequently, 
frequently.  Yura  lifted  both  hands  with  a  heavy 
movement,  clasped  his  mother  around  the  neck  and 
pressed  his  burning  cheek  firmly  to  her  wet  and  cold 
cheek.  She  was  his  mother,  after  all;  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  But  how  painful;  how  bitterly 
painful ! 


A  STORY  WHICH  WILL  NEVER  BE 
FINISHED 

EXHAUSTED  with  the  painful  uncertainty  of 
the  day,  I  fell  asleep,  dressed,  on  my  bed. 
Suddenly  my  wife  aroused  me.  In  her  hand 
a  candle  was  flickering,  which  appeared  to  me  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  as  bright  as  the  sun.  And  behind 
the  candle  her  chin,  too,  was  trembling,  and  enormous, 
unfamiliar  dark  eyes  stared  motionlessly. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  they  are 
building  barricades  on  our  street  ? ' ' 

It  was  quiet.  We  looked  straight  into  each  other's 
eyes,  and  I  felt  my  face  turning  pale.  Life  vanished 
somewhere  and  then  returned  again  with  a  loud  throb- 
bing of  the  heart.  It  was  quiet  and  the  flame  of  the 
candle  was  quivering,  and  it  was  small,  dull,  but 
sharp-pointed,  like  a  crooked  sword. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  I  asked. 

The  pale  chin  trembled,  but  her  eyes  remained  mo- 
tionless and  looked  at  me,  without  blinking,  and  only 
now  I  noticed  what  unfamiliar,  what  terrible  eyes 
they  were.  For  ten  years  I  had  looked  into  them  and 
had  known  them  better  than  my  own  eyes,  and  now 
there  was  something  new  in  them  which  I  am  unable 
to  define.  I  would  have  called  it  pride,  but  there  was 
something  different  in  them,  something  new,  entirely 

35 


86  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

new.  I  took  her  hand ;  it  was  cold.  She  grasped  my 
hand  firmly  and  there  was  something  new,  something 
I  had  not  known  before,  in  her  handclasp. 

She  had  never  before  clasped  my  hand  as  she  did 
this  time. 

*'How  long?"  I  asked. 

"About  an  hour  already.  Your  brother  has  gone 
away.  He  was  apparently  afraid  that  you  would  not 
let  him  go,  so  he  went  away  quietly.     But  I  saw  it." 

It  was  true  then;  the  time  had  arrived.  I  rose, 
and,  for  some  reason,  spent  a  long  time  washing  ray- 
self,  as  was  my  wont  in  the  morning  before  going  to 
work,  and  my  wife  held  the  light.  Then  we  put  out 
the  light  and  walked  over  to  the  window  overlooking 
the  street.  It  was  spring;  it  was  May,  and  the  air 
that  came  in  from  the  open  window  was  such  as  we 
had  never  before  felt  in  that  old,  large  city.  For 
several  days  the  factories  and  the  roads  had  been  idle ; 
and  the  air,  free  from  smoke,  was  filled  with  the  fra- 
grance of  the  fields  and  the  flowering  gardens,  perhaps 
with  that  of  the  dew.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  that 
smells  so  wonderfully  on  spring  nights  when  I  go  out 
far  beyond  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  Not  a  lantern, 
not  a  carriage,  not  a  single  sound  of  the  city  over  the 
unconcerned  stony  surface;  if  you  had  closed  your 
eyes  you  would  really  have  thought  that  you  were  in  a 
village.  There  a  dog  was  barking.  I  had  never  be- 
fore heard  a  dog  barking  in  the  city,  and  I  laughed  for 
happiness. 

"Listen,  a  dog  is  barking." 

My  wife  embraced  me,  and  said : 


A  STORY  NEVER  FINISHED  37 

"It  is  there,  on  the  corner." 

We  bent  over  the  window-sill,  and  there,  in  the 
transparent,  dark  depth,  we  saw  some  movement — not 
people,  but  movement.  Something  was  moving  about 
like  a  shadow.  Suddenly  the  blows  of  a  hatchet  or 
a  hammer  resounded.  They  sounded  so  cheerful,  so 
resonant,  as  in  a  forest,  as  on  a  river  when  you  are 
mending  a  boat  or  building  a  dam.  And  in  the  pre- 
sentiment of  cheerful,  harmonious  work,  I  firmly  em- 
braced my  wife,  while  she  looked  above  the  houses, 
above  the  roofs,  looked  at  the  young  crescent  of  the 
moon,  which  was  already  setting.  The  moon  was  so 
young,  so  strange,  even  as  a  young  girl  who  is  dream- 
ing and  is  afraid  to  tell  her  dreams ;  and  it  was  shin- 
ing only  for  itself. 

"When  will  we  have  a  full  moon?  ..." 

"You  must  not!  You  must  not!"  my  wife  in- 
terrupted. "You  must  not  speak  of  that  which 
will  be.  What  for?  It  is  afraid  of  words.  Come 
here." 

It  was  dark  in  the  room,  and  we  were  silent  for  a 
long  time,  without  seeing  each  other,  yet  thinking  of 
the  same  thing.  And  when  I  started  to  speak,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  some  one  else  was  speaking ;  I  was 
not  afraid,  yet  the  voice  of  the  other  one  was  hoarse, 
as  though  suffocating  for  thirst. 

"WhatshaUitbe?" 

"And— they?" 

"You  will  be  with  them.  It  will  be  enough  for 
them  to  have  a  mother.    I  cannot  remain." 

"And  I?    Can  I?" 


88  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

I  know  that  she  did  not  stir  from  her  place,  but  I 
felt  distinctly  that  she  was  going  away,  that  she  was 
far — far  away.  I  began  to  feel  so  cold,  I  stretched  out 
my  hands — but  she  pushed  them  aside. 

"People  have  such  a  holiday  once  in  a  hundred 
years,  and  you  want  to  deprive  me  of  it.  Why  ? ' '  she 
said. 

"But  they  may  kill  you  there.  And  our  children 
will  perish. ' ' 

"Life  will  be  merciful  to  me.  But  even  if  they 
should  perish — " 

And  this  was  said  by  her,  my  wife — a  woman  with 
whom  I  had  lived  for  ten  years.  But  yesterday  she 
had  known  nothing  except  our  children,  and  had  been 
filled  with  fear  for  them ;  but  yesterday  she  had  caught 
with  terror  the  stern  symptoms  of  the  future.  What 
had  come  over  her?  Yesterday — but  I,  too,  forgot 
everything  that  was  yesterday. 

' '  Do  you  want  to  go  with  me  ? " 

"Do  not  be  angry" — she  thought  that  I  was  afraid, 
angry — "Don't  be  angry.  To-night,  when  they  be- 
gan to  knock  here,  and  you  were  still  sleeping,  I  sud- 
denly understood  that  my  husband,  my  children — all 
these  were  simply  temporary  ...  I  love  you,  very 
much" — she  found  my  hand  and  shook  it  with  the 
same  new,  unfamiliar  grasp — "but  do  you  hear  how 
they  are  knocking  there?  They  are  knocking,  and 
something  seems  to  be  falling,  some  kind  of  walls  seem 
to  be  falling — and  it  is  so  spacious,  so  wide,  so  free. 
It  is  night  now,  and  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  the  sun 
is  shining.     I  am  thirty  years  of  age,  and  I  am  old 


A  STORY  NEVER  FINISHED  39 

already,  and  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  only  seven- 
teen, and  that  I  love  some  one  with  my  first  love — a 
great,  boundless  love. ' ' 

"What  a  night!"  I  said.  **It  is  as  if  the  city  were 
no  more.  You  are  right,  I  have  also  forgotten  how  old 
I  am." 

* '  They  are  knocking,  and  it  sounds  to  me  like  music, 
like  singing  of  which  I  have  always  dreamed — all  my 
life.  And  I  did  not  know  whom  it  was  that  I  loved 
with  such  a  boundless  love,  which  made  me  feel  like 
crying  and  laughing  and  singing.  There  is  freedom 
— do  not  take  my  happiness  away,  let  me  die  with 
those  who  are  working  there,  who  are  calling  the  fu- 
ture so  bravely,  and  who  are  rousing  the  dead  past 
from  its  grave." 

** There  is  no  such  thing  as  time." 

**What  do  you  say?" 

* '  There  is  no  such  thing  as  time.  "Who  are  you  ?  I 
did  not  know  you.    Are  you  a  human  being  ? ' ' 

She  burst  into  such  ringing  laughter  as  though  she 
were  really  only  seventeen  years  old. 

**I  did  not  know  you,  either.  Are  you,  too,  a  hu- 
man being  ?  How  strange  and  how  beautiful  it  is — a 
human  being ! ' ' 

That  which  I  am  writing  happened  long  ago,  and 
those  who  are  sleeping  now  in  the  sleep  of  grey  life 
and  who  die  without  awakening — those  will  not  be- 
lieve me:  in  those  days  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
time.  The  sun  was  rising  and  setting,  and  the  hand 
was  moving  around  the  dial — but  time  did  not  exist. 
And  many  other  great  and  wonderful  things  happened 


40  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

in  those  days.  .  .  .  And  those  who  are  sleeping  now 
the  sleep  of  this  grey  life  and  who  die  without  awaken- 
ing, will  not  believe  me. 

**I  must  go,"  said  I. 

"Wait,  I  will  give  you  something  to  eat.  You 
haven't  eaten  anything  to-day.  See  how  sensible  I 
am:  I  shall  go  to-morrow.  I  shall  give  the  children 
away  and  find  you." 

"Comrade,"  said  I. 

"Yes,  comrade." 

Through  the  open  windows  came  the  breath  of  the 
fields,  and  silence,  and  from  time  to  time,  the  cheerful 
strokes  of  the  axe,  and  I  sat  by  the  table  and  looked 
and  listened,  and  everything  was  so  mysteriously  new 
that  I  felt  like  laughing.  I  looked  at  the  walls  and 
they  seemed  to  me  to  be  transparent.  As  if  embracing 
all  eternity  with  one  glance,  I  saw  how  all  these  walls 
had  been  built,  I  saw  how  they  were  being  destroyed, 
and  I  alone  always  was  and  always  will  be.  Every- 
thing will  pass,  but  I  shall  remain.  And  every- 
thing seemed  to  me  strange  and  queer — so  unnatural 
— the  table  and  the  food  upon  it,  and  everything  out- 
side of  me.  It  all  seemed  to  me  transparent  and  light, 
existing  only  temporarily. 

*  *  Why  don 't  you  eat  ? ' '  asked  my  wife. 

I  smiled : 

'  *  Bread — it  is  so  strange. ' ' 

She  glanced  at  the  bread,  at  the  stale,  dry  crust  of 
bread,  and  for  some  reason  her  face  became  sad. 
Still  continuing  to  look  at  it,  she  silently  adjusted 

ber  apron  with  her  hands  md  her  head  turned  slightly, 


A  STORY  NEVER  FINISHED  4.1 

very  slightly,  in  the  direction  where  the  children  were 
sleeping. 

"Do  you  feel  sorry  for  them?"  I  asked. 

She  shook  her  head  without  removing  her  eyes  from 
the  bread. 

"No,  but  I  was  thinking  of  what  happened  in  our 
life  before." 

How  incomprehensible !  As  one  who  awakens  from 
a  long  sleep,  she  surveyed  the  room  with  her  eyes  and 
all  seemed  to  her  so  incomprehensible.  Was  this  the 
place  where  we  had  lived  ? 

"You  were  my  wife." 

"And  there  are  our  children." 

"Here,  beyond  the  wall,  your  father  died." 

"Yes.    He  died.     He  died  without  awakening." 

The  smallest  child,  fri{2:htened  at  something  in  her 
sleep,  began  to  cry.  And  this  simple  childish  cry, 
apparently  demanding  something,  sounded  so  strange 
amid  these  phantom  walls,  while  there,  below,  people 
were  building  barricades. 

She  cried  and  demanded — caresses,  certain  queer 
words  and  promises  to  soothe  her.  And  she  soon  was 
soothed. 

*  *  Well,  go ! "  said  my  wife  in  a  whisper. 

"I  should  like  to  kiss  them." 

*'I  am  afraid  you  will  wake  them  up." 

"No,  I  will  not." 

It  turned  out  that  the  oldest  child  was  awake — he 
had  heard  and  understood  everything.  He  was  but 
nine  years  old,  but  he  understood  everything — he  met 
me  with  a  deep,  stem  look. 


42  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"Will  you  take  your  gun?"  he  asked  thoughtfully 
and  earnestly. 

"IwiU." 

"It  is  behind  the  stove." 

"How  do  you  know?  Well,  kiss  me.  Will  you  re- 
member me  ?  " 

He  jumped  up  in  his  bed,  in  his  short  little  shirt, 
hot  from  sleep,  and  iSrmly  clasped  my  neck.  His  arms 
were  burning — ^they  were  so  soft  and  delicate.  I 
lifted  his  hair  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  kissed  his 
little  neck. 

"Will  they  kill  you?"  he  whispered  right  into  my 
ear. 

"No,  I  will  come  back." 

But  why  did  he  not  cry?  He  had  cried  sometimes 
when  I  had  simply  left  the  house  for  a  while:  Is  it 
possible  that  it  had  reached  him,  too?  Who  knows? 
So  many  strange  things  happened  during  the  great 
days. 

I  looked  at  the  walls,  at  the  bread,  at  the  candle,  at 
the  flame  which  had  kept  flickering,  and  took  my  wife 
by  the  hand. 

"Well— 'till  we  meet  again!" 

"Yes — 'till  we  meet  again!" 

That  was  all.  I  went  out.  It  was  dark  on  the 
stairway  and  there  was  the  odour  of  old  filth.  Sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  by  the  stones  and  the  darkness, 
groping  down  the  stairs,  I  was  seized  with  a  tremen- 
dous, powerful  and  all-absorbing  feeling  of  the  new, 
unknown  and  joyous  something  to  which  I  was  going. 


ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  CRUCI- 
FIXION 

ON  that  terrible  day,  when  the  universal  injus- 
tice was  committed  and  Jesus  Christ  was 
crucified  in  Golgotha  among  robbers — on  that 
day,  from  early  morning,  Ben-Tovit,  a  tradesman 
of  Jerusalem,  suffered  from  an  unendurable  toothache. 
His  toothache  had  commenced  on  the  day  before,  to- 
ward evening;  at  first  his  right  jaw  started  to  pain 
him,  and  one  tooth,  the  one  right  next  the  wisdom 
tooth,  seemed  to  have  risen  somewhat,  and  when  his 
tongue  touched  the  tooth,  he  felt  a  slightly  painful 
sensation.  After  supper,  however,  his  toothache  had 
passed,  and  Ben-Tovit  had  forgotten  all  about  it — he 
had  made  a  profitable  deal  on  that  day,  had  bartered 
an  old  donkey  for  a  young,  strong  one,  so  he  was  very 
cheerful  and  paid  no  heed  to  any  ominous  signs. 

And  he  slept  very  soundly.  But  just  before  day- 
break something  began  to  disturb  him,  as  if  some  one 
were  calling  him  on  a  very  important  matter,  and 
when  Ben-Tovit  awoke  angrily,  his  teeth  were  aching, 
aching  openly  and  maliciously,  causing  him  an  acute, 
drilling  pain.  And  he  could  no  longer  understand 
whether  it  was  only  the  same  tooth  that  had  ached  on 
the  previous  day,  or  whether  others  had  joined  that 

43 


44  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

tooth;  Ben-Tovit's  entire  mouth  and  his  head  were 
filled  with  terrible  sensations  of  pain,  as  though  he 
had  been  forced  to  chew  thousands  of  sharp,  red-hot 
nails.  He  took  some  water  into  his  mouth  from  an 
earthen  jug — for  a  minute  the  acuteness  of  the  pain 
subsided,  his  teeth  twitched  and  swayed  like  a  wave, 
and  this  sensation  was  even  pleasant  as  compared  with 
the  other. 

Ben-Tovit  lay  down  again,  recalled  his  new  donkey, 
and  thought  how  happy  he  would  have  been  if  not  for 
his  toothache,  and  he  wanted  to  fall  asleep.  But  the 
water  was  warm,  and  five  minutes  later  his  toothache 
began  to  rage  more  severely  than  ever;  Ben-Tovit 
sat  up  in  his  bed  and  swayed  back  and  forth  like  a 
pendulum.  His  face  became  wrinkled  and  seemed  to 
have  shrunk,  and  a  drop  of  cold  perspiration  was  hang- 
ing on  his  nose,  which  had  turned  pale  from  his  suf- 
ferings. Thus,  swaying  back  and  forth  and  groaning 
for  pain,  he  met  the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  which  was 
destined  to  see  Golgotha  and  the  three  crosses,  and 
grow  dim  from  horror  and  sorrow. 

Ben-Tovit  was  a  good  and  kind  man,  who  hated 
any  injustice,  but  when  his  wife  awoke  he  said  many 
unpleasant  things  to  her,  opening  his  mouth  with  diffi- 
culty, and  he  complained  that  he  was  left  alone,  like 
a  jackal,  to  groan  and  writhe  for  pain.  His  wife  met 
the  undeserved  reproaches  patiently,  for  she  knew 
that  they  came  not  from  an  angry  heart — and  she 
brought  him  numerous  good  remedies:  rats'  litter  to 
be  applied  to  his  cheek,  some  strong  liquid  in  which  a 
scorpion  was  preserved,  and  a  real  chip  of  the  tablets 


ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  CRUCIFIXION      45 

that  Moses  had  broken.  He  began  to  feel  a  little  bet- 
ter from  the  rats'  litter,  but  not  for  long,  also  from 
the  liquid  and  the  stone,  but  the  pain  returned  each 
time  with  renewed  intensity. 

During  the  moments  of  rest  Ben-Tovit  consoled  him- 
self with  the  thought  of  the  little  donkey,  and  he 
dreamed  of  him,  and  when  he  felt  worse  he  moaned, 
scolded  his  wife,  and  threatened  to  dash  his  head 
against  a  rock  if  the  pain  should  not  subside.  He  kept 
pacing  back  and  forth  on  the  flat  roof  of  his  house 
from  one  corner  to  the  other,  feeling  ashamed  to  come 
close  to  the  side  facing  the  street,  for  his  head  was 
tied  around  with  a  kerchief,  like  that  of  a  woman. 
Several  times  children  came  running  to  him  and  told 
him  hastily  about  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  Ben-Tovit 
paused,  listened  to  them  for  a  while,  his  face  wrinkled, 
but  then  he  stamped  his  foot  angrily  and  chased  them 
away.  He  was  a  kind  man  and  he  loved  children,  but 
now  he  was  angry  at  them  for  bothering  him  with 
trifles. 

It  was  disagreeable  to  him  that  a  large  crowd  had 
gathered  in  the  street  and  on  the  neighbouring  roofs, 
doing  nothing  and  looking  curiously  at  Ben-Tovit,  who 
had  his  head  tied  around  with  a  kerchief  like  a  woman. 
He  was  about  to  go  down,  when  his  wife  said  to  him : 

**Look,  they  are  leading  robbers  there.  Perhaps 
that  will  divert  you.'* 

"Let  me  alone.  Don't  you  see  how  I  am  suffer- 
ing?" Ben-Tovit  answered  angrily. 

But  there  was  a  vague  promise  in  his  wife's  words 
that  there  might  be  »  relief  for  bis  toothache,  so  hQ 


46  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

walked  over  to  the  parapet  unwillingly.  Bending 
his  head  on  one  side,  closing  one  eye,  and  supporting 
his  cheek  with  his  hand,  his  face  assumed  a  squeamish, 
weeping  expression,  and  he  looked  down  to  the  street. 

On  the  narrow  street,  going  uphill,  an  enormous 
crowd  was  moving  forward  in  disorder,  covered  with 
dust  and  shouting  uninterruptedly.  In  the  middle 
of  the  crowd  walked  the  criminals,  bending  down  un- 
der the  weight  of  their  crosses,  and  over  them  the 
scourges  of  the  Roman  soldiers  were  wriggling  about 
like  black  snakes.  One  of  the  men,  he  of  the  long  light 
hair,  in  a  torn  blood-stained  cloak,  stumbled  over  a 
stone  which  was  thrown  under  his  feet,  and  he  fell. 
The  shouting  grew  louder,  and  the  crowd,  like  col- 
oured sea  water,  closed  in  about  the  man  on  the 
ground.  Ben-Tovit  suddenly  shuddered  for  pain ;  he 
felt  as  though  some  one  had  pierced  a  red-hot  needle 
into  his  tooth  and  turned  it  there;  he  groaned  and 
walked  away  from  the  parapet,  angry  and  squeam- 
ishly indifferent. 

"How  they  are  shouting!"  he  said  enviously,  pic- 
turing to  himself  their  wide-open  mouths  with  strong, 
healthy  teeth,  and  how  he  himself  would  have  shouted 
if  he  had  been  well.  This  intensified  his  toothache, 
and  he  shook  his  muffled  head  frequently,  and  roared : 
''Moo-Moo.  ..." 

"They  say  that  He  restored  sight  to  the  blind,"  said 
his  wife,  who  remained  standing  at  the  parapet,  and 
she  threw  down  a  little  cobblestone  near  the  place 
where  Jesus,  lifted  by  the  whips,  was  moving  slowly. 

"Of  course,  of  course!     He  should  have  cured  my 


ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  CRUCIFIXION      47 

toothache,"  replied  Ben-Tovit  ironically,  and  he 
added  bitterly  with  irritation:  "What  dust  they 
have  kicked  up  !  Like  a  herd  of  cattle !  They  should 
all  be  driven  away  with  a  stick!  Take  me  down, 
Sarah!" 

The  wife  proved  to  be  right.  The  spectacle  had  di- 
verted Ben-Tovit  slightly — perhaps  it  was  the  rats' 
litter  that  had  helped  after  all — he  succeeded  in  fall- 
ing asleep.  When  he  awoke,  his  toothache  had  passed 
almost  entirel}^  and  only  a  little  inflammation  had 
formed  over  his  right  jaw.  His  wife  told  him  that  it 
was  not  noticeable  at  all,  but  Ben-Tovit  smiled  cun- 
ningly— he  knew  how  kind-hearted  his  wife  was  and 
how  fond  she  was  of  telling  him  pleasant  things. 

Samuel,  the  tanner,  a  neighbour  of  Ben-Tovit 's, 
came  in,  and  Ben-Tovit  led  him  to  see  the  new  little 
donkey  and  listened  proudly  to  the  warm  praises  for 
himself  and  his  animal. 

Then,  at  the  request  of  the  curious  Sarah,  the  three 
went  to  Golgotha  to  sec  the  people  who  had  been  cruci- 
fied. On  the  way  Ben-Tovit  told  Samuel  in  detail 
how  he  had  felt  a  pain  in  his  right  jaw  on  the  day 
before,  and  how  he  awoke  at  night  with  a  terrible 
toothache.  To  illustrate  it  he  made  a  martyr's  face, 
closing  his  eyes,  shook  his  head,  and  groaned  while 
the  grey-bearded  Samuel  nodded  his  head  compas- 
sionately and  said : 

"Oh,  how  painful  it  must  have  been!" 

Ben-Tovit  was  pleased  with  Samuel's  attitude,  and 
he  repeated  the  story  to  him,  then  went  back  to  the 
past,  when  his  first  tooth  was  spoiled  on  the  left  side. 


48  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Thus,  absorbed  in  a  lively  conversation,  they  reached 
Golgotha.  The  sun,  which  was  destined  to  shine  upon 
the  world  on  that  terrible  day,  had  already  set  beyond 
the  distant  hills,  and  in  the  west  a  narrow,  purple-red 
strip  was  burning,  like  a  stain  of  blood.  The  crosses 
stood  out  darkly  but  vaguely  against  this  background, 
and  at  the  foot  of  the  middle  cross  white  kneeling  fig- 
ures were  seen  indistinctly. 

The  crowd  had  long  dispersed;  it  was  growing 
chilly,  and  after  a  glance  at  the  crucified  men,  Ben- 
Tovit  took  Samuel  by  the  arm  and  carefully  turned 
him  in  the  direction  toward  his  house.  He  felt  that 
he  was  particularly  eloquent  just  then,  and  he  was 
eager  to  finish  the  story  of  his  toothache.  Thus  they 
walked,  and  Ben-Tovit  made  a  martyr's  face,  shook  his 
head  and  groaned  skilfully,  while  Samuel  nodded  com- 
passionately and  uttered  exclamations  from  time  to 
time,  and  from  the  deep,  narrow  defiles,  out  of  the 
distant,  burning  plains,  rose  the  black  night.  It 
seemed  as  though  it  wished  to  hide  from  the  view  of 
heaven  the  great  crime  of  the  earth. 


THE  SERPENT'S  STORY 

HUSH!  Hush!  Hush!  Come  closer  to  me. 
Look  into  my  eyes! 
I  always  was  a  fascinating  creature,  ten- 
der, sensitive,  and  grateful,  I  was  wise  and  I  was 
noble.  And  I  am  so  flexible  in  the  writhing  of  my 
graceful  body  that  it  will  afford  you  joy  to  watch  my 
easy  dance.  Now  I  shall  coil  up  into  a  ring,  flash  my 
scales  dimly,  wind  myself  around  tenderly  and  clasp 
my  steel  body  in  my  gentle,  cold  embraces.  One  in 
many !     One  in  many ! 

Hush !     Hush !     Look  into  my  eyes ! 

You  do  not  like  my  writhing  and  my^  straight,  open 
look  ?  Oh,  my  head  is  heavy — therefore  I  sway  about 
so  quietly.  Oh,  my  head  is  heavy — therefore  I  look 
so  straight  ahead,  as  I  sway  about.  Come  closer  to 
me.  Give  me  a  little  warmth ;  stroke  my  wise  fore- 
head with  your  fingers;  in  its  fine  outlines  you  will 
find  the  form  of  a  cup  into  which  flows  wisdom,  the 
dew  of  the  evening-flowers.  "When  I  draw  the  air 
by  my  writhing,  a  trace  is  left  in  it — the  design  of 
the  finest  of  webs,  the  web  of  dream-charms,  the  en- 
chantment of  noiseless  movements,  the  inaudible  hiss 
of  gliding  lines.     I  am  silent  and  I  sway  myself.    I 

49 


50  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER, 

look  ahead  and  I  sway  myself.  What  strange  bur- 
den am  I  carrying  on  my  neck? 

I  love  you. 

I  always  was  a  fascinating  creature,  and  loved  ten- 
derly those  I  loved.  Come  closer  to  me.  Do  you  see 
my  white,  sharp,  enchanting  little  teeth?  Kissing,  I 
used  to  bite.  Not  painfully,  no — just  a  trifle.  Ca- 
ressing tenderly,  I  used  to  bite  a  little,  until  the  first 
bright  little  drops  appeared,  until  a  cry  came  forth 
which  sounded  like  the  laugh  produced  by  tickling. 
That  was  very  pleasant — think  not  it  was  unpleasant ; 
otherwise  they  whom  I  kissed  w^ould  not  come  back 
for  more  kisses.  It  is  now  that  I  can  kiss  only  once — 
how  sad — only  once !  One  kiss  for  each — how  little 
for  a  loving  heart,  for  a  sensitive  soul,  striving  for  a 
great  union !  But  it  is  only  I,  the  sad  one,  who  kiss 
but  once,  and  must  seek  love  again — he  knows  no 
other  love  any  more :  to  him  my  one,  tender,  nuptial 
kiss  is  inviolable  and  eternal.  I  am  speaking  to  you 
frankly ;  and  vjlipn  my  story  is  ended — I  will  kiss  you. 

I  love  you.    - 

Look  into  my  eyes.  Is  it  not  true  that  mine  is  a 
magnificent,  a  powerful  look?  A  firm  look  and  a 
straight  look?  And  it  is  steadfast,  like  steel  forced 
against  your  heart.  I  look  ahead  and  sway  myself,  I 
look  and  I  enchant;  in  my  green  eyes  I  gather  your 
fear,  your  loving,  fatigued,  submissive  longing. 
Come  closer  to  me.  Now  I  am  a  queen  and  you  dare 
not  fail  to  see  my  beauty;  but  there  was  a  strange 
time — Ah,  what  a  strange  time!  Ah,  what  a  strange 
time !     At  the  mere  recollection  I  am  agitated — Ah, 


THE  SERPENT'S  STORY  61 

"what  a  strange  time !  No  one  loved  me.  No  one  re- 
spected me.  I  was  persecuted  with  cruel  ferocity, 
trampled  in  the  mud  and  jeered— Ah,  what  a  strange 
time  it  was!     One  in  many!     One  in  many! 

I  say  to  you :     Come  closer  to  me. 

Why  did  they  not  love  me?  At  that  time  I  was 
also  a  fascinating  creature,  but  without  malice ;  I  was 
gentle  and  I  danced  wonderfully.  But  they  tortured 
me.  They  burnt  me  with  fire.  Heavy  and  coarse 
beasts  trampled  upon  me  with  the  dull  steps  of  ter- 
ribly heavy  feet ;  cold  tusks  of  bloody  mouths  tore  my 
tender  body — and  in  my  powerless  sorrow  I  bit  the 
sand,  I  swallowed  the  dust  of  the  ground — I  was  dying 
of  despair.  Crushed,  I  was  dying  every  day.  Every 
day  I  was  dying  of  despair.  Oh,  what  a  terrible  time 
that  was !  The  stupid  forest  has  forgotten  everything 
—it  does  not  remember  that  time,  but  you  have  pity  on 
me.  Come  closer  to  me.  Have  pity  on  me,  on  the 
offended,  on  the  sad  one,  on  the  loving  one,  on  the  one 
who  dances  so  beautifully. 

I  love  you. 

How  could  I  defend  myself  ?  I  had  only  my  white, 
wonderful,  sharp  little  teeth — they  were  good  only  for 
kisses.  How  could  I  defend  myself?  It  is  only  now 
that  I  carry  on  my  neck  this  terrible  burden  of  a 
head,  and  my  look  is  commanding  and  straight,  but 
then  my  head  was  light  and  my  eyes  gazed  meekl3^ 
Then  I  had  no  poison  yet.  Oh,  my  head  is  so  heavy 
and  it  is  hard  for  me  to  hold  it  up !  Oh,  I  have  grown 
tired  of  my  look — two  stones  are  in  my  forehead,  and 
these  are  my  eyes.     Perhaps  the  glittering  stones  are 


52  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

precious — but  it  is  hard  to  carry  tbem  instead  of  gen- 
tle eyes — they  oppress  my  brain.  It  is  so  hard  for 
my  head!  I  look  ahead  and  sway  myself;  I  see  you 
in  a  green  mist — ^you  are  so  far  away.  Come  closer 
to  me. 

You  see,  even  in  sorrow  I  am  beautiful,  and  my 
look  is  languid  because  of  my  love.  Look  into  my 
pupil;  I  will  narrow  and  widen  it,  and  give  it  a  pe- 
culiar glitter — the  twinkling  of  a  star  at  night,  the 
playfulness  of  all  precious  stones — of  diamonds,  of 
green  emeralds,  of  yellowish  topaz,  of  blood-red 
rubies.  Look  into  my  eyes :  It  is  I,  the  queen — I  am 
crowning  myself,  and  that  which  is  glittering,  burn- 
ing and  glowing — that  robs  you  of  your  reason,  your 
freedom  and  your  life — it  is  poison.  It  is  a  drop  of 
my  poison. 

How  has  it  happened?  I  do  not  know.  I  did  not 
bear  ill-will  to  the  living. 

I  lived  and  suffered.  I  was  silent.  I  languished. 
I  hid  myself  hurriedly  when  I  could  hide  myself;  I 
crawled  away  hastily.  But  they  have  never  seen  me 
weep — I  cannot  weep ;  and  my  easy  dance  grew  ever 
faster  and  ever  more  beautiful.  Alone  in  the  stillness, 
alone  in  the  thicket,  I  danced  with  sorrow  in  my  heart 
— they  despised  my  swift  dance  and  would  have  been 
glad  to  kill  me  as  I  danced.  Suddenly  my  head  began 
to  grow  heavy — How  strange  it  is! — My  head  grew 
heavy.  Just  as  small  and  beautiful,  just  as  wise  and 
beautiful,  it  had  suddenly  grown  terribly  heavy;  it 
bent  my  neck  to  the  ground,  and  caused  me  pain. 
Now  I  am  somewhat  used  to  it,  but  at  first  it  was 


THE  SERPENT'S  STORY  53 

dreadfully  awkward  and  painful.  I  thought  I  was 
sick. 

And  suddenly  .  .  .  Come  closer  to  me.  Look  into 
my  eyes.    Hush !    Hush !     Hush ! 

And  suddenly  my  look  became  heavy — it  became 
fixed  and  strange — I  was  even  frightened !  I  want  to 
glance  and  turn  away — but  cannot.  I  always  look 
straight  ahead,  I  pierce  with  my  eyes  ever  more  deeply, 
I  am  as  though  petrified.  Look  into  my  eyes.  It  is  as 
though  I  am  petrified,  as  though  everything  I  look 
upon  is  petrified.    Look  into  my  eyes. 

I  love  you.  Do  not  laugh  at  my  frank  story,  or  I 
shall  be  angry.  Every  hour  I  open  my  sensitive  heart, 
for  all  my  efforts  are  in  vain — I  am  alone.  My  one 
and  last  kiss  is  full  of  ringing  sorrow — and  the  one  I 
love  is  not  here,  and  I  seek  love  again,  and  I  tell  my 
tale  in  vain — my  heart  cannot  bare  itself,  and  the 
poison  torments  me  and  my  head  grows  heavier.  Am 
I  not  beautiful  in  my  despair  ?     Come  closer  to  me. 

I  love  you. 

Once  I  was  bathing  in  a  stagnant  swamp  in  the 
forest — I  love  to  be  clean — it  is  a  sign  of  noble  birth, 
and  I  bathe  frequently.  While  bathing,  dancing  in 
the  water,  I  saw  my  reflection,  and  as  always,  fell  in 
love  with  myself.  I  am  so  fond  of  the  beautiful  and 
the  wise!  And  suddenly  I  saw — on  my  forehead, 
among  my  other  inborn  adornments,  a  new,  strange 
sign — Was  it  not  this  sign  that  has  brought  the  heavi- 
ness, the  petrified  look,  and  the  sweet  taste  in  my 
mouth?  Here  a  cross  is  darkly  outlined  on  my  fore- 
head— right  here — ^look.    Come  closer  to  me.    Is  this 


54  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

not  strange?  But  I  did  not  understand  it  at  that 
time,  and  I  liked  it.  Let  there  be  no  more  adornment. 
And  on  the  same  day,  on  that  same  terrible  day,  when 
the  cross  appeared,  my  first  kiss  became  also  my  last 
— my  kiss  became  fatal.  One  in  many!  One  in 
many! 

Oh! 

You  love  precious  stones,  but  think,  my  beloved, 
how  far  more  precious  is  a  little  drop  of  my  poison. 
It  is  such  a  little  drop. — Have  you  ever  seen  it? 
Never,  never.  But  you  shall  find  it  out.  Consider, 
my  beloved,  how  much  suffering,  painful  humiliation, 
powerless  rage  devoured  me :  I  had  to  experience  in 
order  to  bring  forth  this  little  drop.  I  am  a  queen! 
I  am  a  queen !  In  one  drop,  brought  forth  by  myself, 
I  carry  death  unto  the  living,  and  my  kingdom  is 
limitless,  even  as  grief  is  limitless,  even  as  death  is 
limitless,  I  am  queen !  IVIy  look  is  inexorable.  My 
dance  is  terrible!  I  am  beautiful!  One  in  many! 
One  in  many ! 

Oh! 

Do  not  fall.  My  story  is  not  yet  ended.  Come 
closer  to  me. 

And  then  I  crawled  into  the  stupid  forest,  into  my 
green  dominion. 

Now  it  is  a  new  way,  a  terrible  way!  I  was  kind 
like  a  queen;  and  like  a  queen  I  bowed  graciously  to 
the  right  and  to  the  left.  And  they — they  ran  away! 
Like  a  queen  I  boAved  benevolently  to  the  right  and  to 
the  left — and  they,  queer  people— they  ran  away. 
What   do   you   think?    "Why   did   they   run   away? 


THE  SERPENT'S  STORY  55 

What  do  you  think  ?  Look  into  my  eyes.  Do  you  see 
in  them  a  certain  glimmer  and  a  flash?  The  rays  of 
my  crown  blind  your  eyes,  you  are  petrified,  you  are 
lost.  I  shall  soon  dance  my  last  dance — do  not  fall. 
I  shall  coil  into  rings,  I  shall  flash  my  scales  dimly, 
and  I  shall  clasp  my  steel  body  in  my  gentle,  cold 
embraces.  Here  I  am !  Accept  my  only  kiss,  my  nup- 
tial kiss — in  it  is  the  deadly  grief  of  all  oppressed 
lives.     One  in  many!     One  in  many! 

Bend  down  to  me.     I  love  you. 

Die! 


LOVE,  FAITH  AND  HOPE 

HE  loved. 
According  to  his  passport,  he  was  called 
Max  Z.  But  as  it  was  stated  in  the 
same  passport  that  he  had  no  special  peculiarities 
about  his  features,  I  prefer  to  call  him  Mr.  N  -f- 1. 
He  represented  a  long  line  of  young  men  who  possess 
wavy,  dishevelled  locks,  straight,  bold,  and  open  looks, 
well-formed  and  strong  bodies,  and  very  large  and 
powerful  hearts. 

All  these  youths  have  loved  and  perpetuated  their 
love.  Some  of  them  have  succeeded  in  engraving  it  on 
the  tablets  of  history,  like  Henry  IV;  others,  like 
Petrarch,  have  made  literary  preserves  of  it;  some 
have  availed  themselves  for  that  purpose  of  the  news- 
papers, wherein  the  happenings  of  the  day  are  re- 
corded, and  where  they  figured  among  those  who  had 
strangled  themselves,  shot  themselves,  or  who  had  been 
shot  by  others;  still  others,  the  happiest  and  most 
modest  of  all,  perpetuated  their  love  by  entering  it  in 
the  birth  records — by  creating  posterity. 

The  love  of  N  +.  1  was  as  strong  as  death,  as  a  cer- 
tain writer  put  it ;  as  strong  as  life,  he  thought. 

Max  was  firmly  convinced  that  he  was  the  first  to 
Tfime  discovered  the  method  of  loving  so  intensely,  so 

56 


LOVE,  FAITH  AND  HOPE  57 

unrestrainedly,  so  passionately,  and  he  regarded  with 
contempt  all  who  had  loved  before  him.  Still  more, 
he  was  convinced  that  even  after  him  no  one  would 
love  as  he  did,  and  he  felt  sorry  that  with  his  death 
the  secret  of  true  love  would  be  lost  to  mankind.  But, 
being  a  modest  young  man,  he  attributed  part  of  his 
achievement  to  her — to  his  beloved.  Not  that  she  was 
perfection  itself,  but  she  came  very  close  to  it,  as  close 
as  an  ideal  can  come  to  reality. 

There  were  prettier  women  than  she,  there  were 
wiser  women,  but  was  there  ever  a  better  woman? 
Did  there  ever  exist  a  woman  on  whose  face  was  so 
clearly  and  distinctly  written  that  she  alone  was 
worthy  of  love — of  infinite,  pure,  and  devoted  love? 
Max  knew  that  there  never  were,  and  that  there  never 
would  be  such  women.  In  this  respect,  he  had  no 
special  peculiarities,  just  as  Adam  did  not  have  them, 
just  as  you,  my  reader,  do  not  have  them.  Beginning 
with  Grandmother  Eve  and  ending  with  the  woman 
upon  whom  your  eyes  were  directed — before  you  read 
these  lines — the  same  inscription  is  to  be  clearly  and 
distinctly  read  on  the  face  of  every  woman  at  a  certain 
time.    The  difference  is  only  in  the  quality  of  the  ink. 

A  very  nasty  day  set  in — it  was  ^Monday  or  Tues- 
day— when  I\Iax  noticed  with  a  feeling  of  great  terror 
that  the  inscription  upon  the  dear  face  was  fading. 
]\Iax  rubbed  his  eyes,  looked  first  from  a  distance,  then 
from  all  sides;  but  the  fact  was  undeniable — -the  in- 
scription was  fading.  Soon  the  last  letter  also  disap- 
peared— the  face  was  white  like  the  recently  white- 
washed wall  of  a  new  house.     But  he  was  convinced 


58  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

that  the  inscription  had  disappeared  not  of  itself,  but 
that  some  one  had  wiped  it  off.    Who  ? 

Max  went  to  his  friend,  John  N.  He  knew  and 
he  felt  sure  that  such  a  true,  disinterested,  and  honest 
friend  there  never  was  and  never  would  be.  And  in 
this  respect,  too,  as  you  see,  Max  had  no  special  pe- 
culiarities. He  went  to  his  friend  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  his  advice  concerning  the  mysterious  disap- 
pearance of  the  inscription,  and  found  John  N. 
exactly  at  the  moment  when  he  was  wiping  away  that 
inscription  by  his  kisses.  It  was  then  that  the  records 
of  the  local  occurrences  were  enriched  by  another  un- 
fortunate incident,  entitled  "An  Attempt  at  Suicide." 

It  is  said  that  death  always  comes  in  due  time. 
Evidently,  that  time  had  not  yet  arrived  for  Max,  for 
he  remained  alive — that  is,  he  ate,  drank,  walked,  bor- 
rowed money  and  did  not  return  it,  and  altogether  he 
showed  by  a  series  of  psycho-physiological  acts  that  he 
was  a  living  being,  possessing  a  stomach,  a  will,  and  a 
mind — but  his  soul  was  dead,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  it 
was  absorbed  in  lethargic  sleep.  The  sound  of  human 
speech  reached  his  ears,  his  eyes  saw  tears  and  laugh- 
ter, but  all  that  did  not  stir  a  single  echo,  a  single 
emotion  in  his  soul.  I  do  not  know  what  space  of  time 
had  elapsed.  It  may  have  been  one  year,  and  it  may 
have  been  ten  years,  for  the  length  of  such  intermis- 
sions in  life  depends  on  how  quickly  the  actor  suc- 
ceeds in  changing  his  costume. 

One  beautiful  day — it  was  Wednesday  or  Thursday 


LOVE,  FAITH  AND  HOPE  59 

— Max  awakened  completely.  A  careful  and  guarded 
liquidation  of  liis  spiritual  property  made  it  clear 
that  a  fair  piece  of  Max's  soul,  the  part  which  con- 
tained his  love  for  woman  and  for  his  friends,  was 
dead,  like  a  paralysis-stricken  hand  or  foot.  But  what 
remained  was,  nevertheless,  enough  for  life.  That 
was  love  for  and  faith  in  mankind.  Then  Max,  hav- 
ing renounced  personal  happiness,  started  to  work 
for  the  happiness  of  others. 

That  was  a  new  phase — he  believed. 

All  the  evil  that  is  tormenting  the  world  seemed  to 
him  to  be  concentrated  in  a  ''red  flower,"  in  one  red 
flower.  It  was  but  necessary  to  tear  it  down,  and  the 
incessant,  heart-rending  cries  and  moans  which  rise 
to  the  indifferent  sky  from  all  points  of  the  earth,  like 
its  natural  breathing,  would  be  silenced.  The  evil  of 
the  world,  he  believed,  lay  in  the  evil  will  and  in  the 
madness  of  the  people.  They  themselves  were  to 
blame  for  being  unhappy,  and  they  could  be  happy  if 
they  wished.  This  seemed  so  clear  and  simple  that 
Max  was  dumfounded  in  his  amazement  at  human 
stupidity.  Humanity  reminded  him  of  a  crowd  hud- 
dled together  in  a  spacious  temple  and  panic-stricken 
at  the  cry  of  "Fire!" 

Instead  of  passing  calmly  through  the  wide  doors 
and  saving  themselves,  the  maddened  people,  with  the 
cruelty  of  frenzied  beasts,  cry  and  roar,  crush  one 
another  and  perish — not  from  the  fire  (for  it  is  only 
imaginary),  but  from  their  own  madness.  It  is 
enough  sometimes  when  one  sensible,  firm  word  is  ut- 


60  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

tered  to  this  crowd — the  crowd  calms  down  and 
imminent  death  is  thus  averted.  Let,  then,  a  hun- 
dred calm,  rational  voices  be  raised  to  mankind,  show- 
ing them  where  to  escape  and  where  the  danger  lies — 
and  heaven  will  be  established  on  earth,  if  not  imme- 
diately, then  at  least  within  a  very  brief  time. 

Max  began  to  utter  his  word  of  wisdom.  How  he 
uttered  it  you  will  learn  later.  The  name  of  Max  was 
mentioned  in  the  newspapers,  shouted  in  the  market 
places,  blessed  and  cursed;  whole  books  were  written 
on  what  Max  N  -f- 1  had  done,  what  he  was  doing,  and 
what  he  intended  to  do.  He  appeared  here  and  there 
and  everywhere.  He  was  seen  standing  at  the  head 
of  the  crowd,  commanding  it;  he  was  seen  in  chains 
and  under  the  knife  of  the  guillotine.  In  this  respect 
Max  did  not  have  any  special  peculiarities,  either. 
A  preacher  of  humility  and  peace,  a  stern  bearer  of 
fire  and  sword,  he  was  the  same  Max — Max  the  be- 
liever. But  while  he  was  doing  all  this,  time  kept 
passing  on.  His  nerves  were  shattered ;  his  wavy  locks 
became  thin  and  his  head  began  to  look  like  that  of 
Elijah  the  Prophet ;  here  and  there  he  felt  a  piercing 
pain.  .  .  . 

The  earth  continued  to  turn  light-mindedly  around 
the  sun,  now  coming  nearer  to  it,  now  retreating  eo- 
quettishly,  and  giving  the  impression  that  it  fixed  all 
its  attention  upon  its  household  friend,  the  moon ;  the 
days  were  replaced  by  other  days,  and  the  dark  nights 
by  other  dark  nights,  with  such  pedantic  German 
punctuality  and  correctness  that  all  the  artistic  na- 
tures were  compelled  to  move  over  to  the  far  north  by 


LOVE,  FAITH  AND  HOPE  61 

degrees,  where  the  devil  himself  would  break  his  head 
endeavouring  to  distinguish  between  day  and  night — 
when  suddenly  something  happened  to  Max. 

Somehow  it  happened  that  Max  became  misunder- 
stood. He  had  calmed  the  crowd  by  his  words  of  wis- 
dom many  a  time  before  and  had  saved  them  from 
mutual  destruction,  but  now  he  was  not  understood. 
They  thought  that  it  was  he  who  had  shouted  "Fire !" 
With  all  the  eloquence  of  which  he  was  capable  he  as- 
sured them  that  he  was  exerting  all  his  efforts  for  their 
sake  alone ;  that  he  himself  needed  absolutely  nothing, 
for  he  was  alone,  childless ;  that  he  was  ready  to  for- 
get the  sad  misunderstanding  and  serve  them  again 
with  faith  and  truth — but  all  in  vain.  They  would 
not  trust  him.  And  in  this  respect  Max  did  not  have 
any  special  peculiarities,  either.  The  sad  incident 
ended  for  Max  in  a  new  intermission. 

Max  was  alive,  as  was  positively  established  by  medi- 
cal experts,  who  had  made  a  series  of  simple  tests. 
Thus,  when  they  pricked  a  needle  into  his  foot,  he 
shook  his  foot  and  tried  to  remove  the  needle.  When 
they  put  food  before  him,  he  ate  it,  but  he  did  not  walk 
and  did  not  ask  for  any  loans,  which  clearly  testified 
to  the  complete  decline  of  his  energy.  His  soul  was 
dead — as  much  as  the  soul  can  be  dead  while  the  body 
is  alive.  To  Max  all  that  he  had  loved  and  believed  in 
was  dead.  Impenetrable  gloom  wrapped  his  soul. 
There  were  neither  feelings  in  it,  nor  desires,  nor 
thoughts.  And  there  was  not  a  more  unhappy  man  in 
the  world  than  Max,  if  he  was  a  man  at  all. 


62  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

But  he  was  a  man. 

According  to  the  calendar,  it  was  Friday  or  Satur- 
day, when  Max  awakened  as  from  a  prolonged  sleep. 
With  the  pleasant  sensation  of  an  owner  to  whom  his 
property  has  been  restored  which  had  wrongly  been 
taken  from  him,  Max  realised  that  he  was  once  more 
in  possession  of  all  his  five  senses. 

His  sight  reported  to  him  that  he  was  all  alone,  in  a 
place  which  might  in  justice  be  called  either  a  room 
or  a  chimney.  Each  wall  of  the  room  was  about  a 
metre  and  a  half  wide  and  about  ten  metres  high. 
The  walls  were  straight,  white,  smooth,  with  no  open- 
ings, except  one  through  which  food  was  brought  to 
Max.  An  electric  lamp  was  burning  brightly  on  the 
ceiling.  It  was  burning  all  the  time,  so  that  Max  did 
not  know  now  what  darkness  was.  There  was  no  fur- 
niture in  the  room,  and  Max  had  to  lie  on  the  stone 
floor.  He  lay  curled  together,  as  the  narrowness  of 
the  room  did  not  permit  him  to  stretch  himself. 

His  sense  of  hearing  reported  to  him  that  until  the 
day  of  his  death  he  would  not  leave  this  room.  .  .  . 
Having  reported  this,  his  hearing  sank  into  inactivity, 
for  not  the  slightest  sound  came  from  without,  except 
the  sounds  which  Max  himself  produced,  tossing  about, 
or  shouting  until  he  was  hoarse,  until  he  lost  his  voice. 

Max  looked  into  himself.  In  contrast  to  the  out- 
ward light  which  never  went  out  he  saw  within  himself 
impenetrable,  heavy,  and  motionless  darkness.  In 
that  darkness  his  love  and  faith  were  buried. 

Max  did  not  know  whether  time  was  moving  or 
whether  it  stood  motionless.     The  same  even,  white 


LOVE,  FAITH  AND  HOPE  63 

light  poured  down  on  him — the  same  silence  and 
quiet.  Only  by  the  beating  of  his  heart  Max  could 
judge  that  Chronos  had  not  left  his  chariot.  His 
body  was  aching  ever  more  from  the  unnatural  posi- 
tion in  which  it  lay,  and  the  constant  light  and  silence 
were  growing  ever  more  tormenting.  How  happy  are 
they  for  whom  night  exists,  near  whom  people  are 
shouting,  making  noise,  beating  drums;  who  may  sit 
on  a  chair,  with  their  feet  hanging  down,  or  lie  with 
their  feet  outstretched,  placing  the  head  in  a  corner 
and  covering  it  with  the  hands  in  order  to  create  the 
illusion  of  darkness. 

Max  made  an  effort  to  recall  and  to  picture  to  him- 
self what  there  is  in  life;  human  faces,  voices,  the 
stars.  .  .  .  He  knew  that  his  eyes  would  never  in  life 
see  that  again.  Pie  knew  it,  and  yet  he  lived.  He 
could  have  destroyed  himself,  for  there  is  no  position 
in  which  a  man  can  not  do  that,  but  instead  Max 
worried  about  his  health,  trying  to  eat,  although  he 
had  no  appetite,  solving  mathematical  problems  to 
occupy  his  mind  so  as  not  to  lose  his  reason.  He 
struggled  against  death  as  if  it  were  not  his  deliverer, 
but  his  enemy ;  and  as  if  life  were  to  him  not  the  worst 
of  infernal  tortures — but  love,  faith,  and  happiness. 
Gloom  in  the  Past,  the  grave  in  the  Future,  and  infer- 
nal tortures  in  the  Present — and  yet  he  lived.  Tell 
me,  John  N.,  where  did  he  get  the  strength  for  that  ? 

He  hoped. 


THE  OCEAN 

CHAPTER  I 

A  MISTY  February  twilight  is  descending  over 
the  ocean.  The  newly  fallen  snow  has  melted 
and  the  warm  air  is  heavy  and  damp.  The 
northwestern  wind  from  the  sea  is  driving  it  silently 
toward  the  mainland,  bringing  in  its  wake  a  sharply 
fragrant  mixture  of  brine,  of  boundless  space,  of  un- 
disturbed, free  and  mysterious  distances. 

In  the  sky,  where  the  sun  is  setting,  a  noiseless  de- 
struction of  an  unknown  city,  of  an  unknown  land, 
is  taking  place;  structures,  magnificent  palaces  with 
towers,  are  crumbling ;  mountains  are  silently  splitting 
asunder  and,  bending  slowly,  are  tumbling  down. 
But  no  cry,  no  moan,  no  crash  of  the  fall  reaches  the 
earth — the  monstrous  play  of  shadows  is  noiseless; 
and  the  great  surface  of  the  ocean,  as  though  ready 
for  something,  as  though  waiting  for  something,  re- 
flecting it  faintly,  listens  to  it  in  silence. 

Silence  reigns  also  in  the  fishermen's  settlement. 
The  fishermen  have  gone  fishing;  the  children  are 
sleeping  and  only  the  restless  women,  gathered  in 
front  of  the  houses,  are  talking  softly,  lingering  be- 
fore going  to  sleep,  beyond  which  there  is  always  the 
unknown. 

64 


THE  OCEAN  65 

The  light  of  the  sea  and  the  sky  behind  the  houses, 
and  the  houses  and  their  bark  roofs  are  black  and 
sharp,  and  there  is  no  perspective:  the  houses  that 
are  far  and  those  that  are  near  seem  to  stand  side  by 
side  as  if  attached  to  one  another,  the  roofs  and  the 
walls  embracing  one  another,  pressing  close  to  one 
another,  seized  with  the  same  uneasiness  before  the 
eternal  unknown. 

Right  here  there  is  also  a  little  church,  its  side  wall 
formed  crudely  of  rough  granite,  with  a  deep  window 
which  seems  to  be  concealing  itself. 

A  cautious  sound  of  women's  voices  is  heard,  soft- 
ened by  uneasiness  and  by  the  approaching  night. 

"We  can  sleep  peacefully  to-night.  The  sea  is 
calm  and  the  rollers  are  breaking  like  the  clock  in 
the  steeple  of  old  Dan." 

''They  will  come  back  with  the  morning  tide.  My 
husband  told  me  that  they  will  come  back  with  the 
morning  tide." 

**  Perhaps  they  will  come  back  with  the  evening 
tide.  It  is  better  for  us  to  think  they  will  come  back 
in  the  evening,  so  that  our  waiting  will  not  be  in 
vain, ' ' 

"But  I  must  build  a  fire  in  the  stove." 

"When  the  men  are  away  from  home,  one  does  not 
feel  like  starting  a  fire.  I  never  build  a  fire,  even 
when  I  am  awake;  it  seems  to  me  that  fire  brings  a 
storm.     It  is  better  to  be  quiet  and  silent." 

"And  listen  to  the  wind?     No,  that  is  terrible." 

"I  love  the  fire.  I  should  like  to  sleep  near  the 
fire,  but  my  husband  does  not  allow  it." 


66  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"Why  doesn't  old  Dan  come  here?  It  is  time  to 
strike  the  hour." 

"Old  Dan  will  play  in  the  church  to-night;  he  can- 
not bear  such  silence  as  this.  When  the  sea  is  roar- 
ing, old  Dan  hides  himself  and  is  silent — he  is  afraid 
of  the  sea.  But,  as  soon  as  the  waves  calm  down,  Dan 
crawls  out  quietly  and  sits  down  to  play  his  organ." 

The  women  laugh  softly. 

"He  reproaches  the  sea." 

"He  is  complaining  to  God  against  it.  He  knows 
how  to  complain  well.  One  feels  like  crying  when 
he  tells  God  about  those  who  have  perished  at  sea. 
Mariet,  have  you  seen  Dan  to-day?  Why  are  you 
silent,  Mariet?" 

Mariet  is  the  adopted  daughter  of  the  abbot,  in 
whose  house  old  Dan,  the  organist,  lives.  Absorbed 
in  thought,  she  does  not  hear  the  question. 

"Mariet,  do  you  hear?  Anna  is  asking  you 
whether  you  have  seen  Dan  to-day." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  have.  I  don't  remember.  He  is 
in  his  room.  He  does  not  like  to  leave  his  room  when 
father  goes  fishing." 

"Dan  is  fond  of  the  city  priests.  He  cannot  get 
used  to  the  idea  of  a  priest  who  goes  fishing,  like  an 
ordinary  fisherman,  and  who  goes  to  sea  with  our 
husbands." 

"He  is  simply  afraid  of  the  sea." 

"You  may  say  what  you  like,  but  I  believe  we 
have  the  very  best  priest  in  the  world." 

"That's  true.  I  fear  him,  but  I  love  him  as  a 
father." 


THE  OCEAN  67 

"May  God  forgive  me,  but  I  would  have  been 
proud  and  always  happy,  if  I  were  his  adopted  daugh- 
ter.   Do  you  hear,  Mariet?" 

The  women  laugh  softly  and  tenderly. 

**Do  you  hear,  Mariet?" 

**I  do.  But  aren't  you  tired  of  always  laugh- 
ing at  the  same  thing?  Yes,  I  am  his  daughter — 
Is  it  so  funny  that  you  will  laugh  all  your  life  at 
it?" 

The  women  commence  to  justify  themselves  con- 
fusedly. 

"But  he  laughs  at  it  himself." 

"The  abbot  is  fond  of  jesting.  He  says  so  com- 
ically: 'My  adopted  daughter,'  and  then  he  strikes 
himself  with  his  fist  and  shouts:  'She's  my  real 
daughter,  not  my  adopted  daughter.  She's  my  real 
daughter.'  " 

' '  I  have  never  known  my  mother,  but  this  laughter 
would  have  been  unpleasant  to  her.  I  feel  it,"  says 
Mariet. 

The  women  grow  silent.  The  breakers  strike 
against  the  shore  dully  with  the  regularity  of  a  great 
pendulum.  The  unknown  city,  wrapped  with  fire  and 
smoke,  is  still  being  destroyed  in  the  skj'^;  yet  it  does 
not  fall  down  completely;  and  the  sea  is  waiting. 
Mariet  lifts  her  lowered  head. 

"What  were  you  going  to  say,  Mariet?" 

"Didn't  he  pass  here?"  asks  Mariet  in  a  low  voice. 

Another  woman  answers  timidly: 

* '  Hush !  Why  do  you  speak  of  him  ?  I  fear  him. 
No,  he  did  not  pass  this  way." 


68  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"He  did.  I  saw  from  the  window  that  he  passed 
by." 

"You  are  mistaken;  it  was  some  one  else." 

"Who  else  could  that  be?  Is  it  possible  to  make 
a  mistake,  if  you  have  once  seen  him  walk?  No  one 
walks  as  he  does." 

"Naval  officers,  Englishmen,  walk  like  that." 

"No.  Haven't  I  seen  naval  officers  in  the  city? 
They  walk  firmly,  but  openly;  even  a  girl  could  trust 
them." 

"Oh,  look  out!" 

Frightened  and  cautious  laughter. 

"No,  don't  laugh.  He  walks  without  looking  at 
the  ground;  he  puts  his  feet  down  as  if  the  ground 
itself  must  take  them  cautiously  and  place  them." 

"But  if  there's  a  stone  on  the  road?  "We  have 
many  stones  here." 

"He  does  not  bend  down,  nor  does  he  hide  his  head 
when  a  strong  wind  blows." 

"Of  course  not.  Of  course  not.  He  does  not  hide 
his  head." 

"Is  it  true  that  he  is  handsome?  Who  has  seen 
him  at  close  range?" 

"I,"  says  Mariet. 

"No,  no,  don't  speak  of  him;  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
sleep  all  night.  Since  they  settled  on  that  hill,  in 
that  accursed  castle,  I  know  no  rest;  I  am  dying  of 
fear.    You  are  also  afraid.     Confess  it." 

"Well,  not  all  of  us  are  afraid." 

"What  have  they  come  here  for?  There  are  two 
of  them.    What  is  there  for  them  to  do  here  in  our 


THE  OCEAN  69 

poor  land,  where  we  have  nothing  but  stones  and  the 
sea?" 

"They  drink  gin.  The  sailor  comes  every  morning 
for  gin." 

"They  are  simply  drunkards  who  don't  want  any- 
body to  disturb  their  drinking.  When  the  sailor 
passes  along  the  street  he  leaves  behind  him  an  odour 
as  of  an  open  bottle  of  rum. ' ' 

"But  is  that  their  business — drinking  gin?  I  fear 
them.  Where  is  the  ship  that  brought  them  here? 
They  came  from  the  sea." 

"I  saw  the  ship,"  says  Mariet. 

The  women  begin  to  question  her  in  amazement. 

* '  You  ?  Why,  then,  didn  't  you  say  anything  about 
it?     Tell  us  what  you  know." 

Mariet  maintains  silence.  Suddenly  one  of  the 
women  exclaims: 

"Ah,  look!  They  have  lifr  a  lamp.  There  is  a 
light  in  the  castle!" 

On  the  left,  about  half  a  mile  away  from  the  vil- 
lage, a  faint  light  flares  up,  a  red  little  coal  in  the 
dark  blue  of  the  twilight  and  the  distance.  There 
upon  a  high  rock,  overhanging  the  sea,  stands  an 
ancient  castle,  a  grim  heritage  of  grey  and  myste- 
rious antiquity.  Long  destroyed,  long  ruined,  it 
blends  with  the  rocks,  continuing  and  delusively  end- 
ing them  by  the  broken,  dented  line  of  its  batteries, 
its  shattered  roofs,  its  half-crumbled  towers.  Now  the 
rocks  and  the  castle  are  covered  with  a  smoky  shroud 
of  twilight.  They  seem  airy,  devoid  of  any  weight, 
and  almost  as  fantastic  as  those  monstrous  heaps  of 


70  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

structures  which  are  piled  up  and  which  are  falling 
so  noiselessly  in  the  sky.  But  while  the  others  are 
falling  this  one  stands,  and  a  live  light  reddens 
against  the  deep  blue — and  it  is  just  as  strange  a  sight 
as  if  a  human  hand  were  to  kindle  a  light  in  the 
clouds. 

Turning  their  heads  in  that  direction,  the  women 
look  on  with  frightened  eyes, 

' '  Do  you  see, ' '  says  one  of  them.  "  It  is  even  worse 
than  a  light  on  a  cemetery.  Who  needs  a  light 
among  the  tombstones?" 

"It  is  getting  cold  toward  night  and  the  sailor 
must  have  thrown  some  branches  into  the  fireplace, 
that's  all.    At  least,  I  think  so,"  says  Mariet. 

"And  I  think  that  the  abbot  should  have  gone 
there  with  holy  water  long  ago." 

"Or  with  the  gendarmes!  If  that  isn't  the  devil 
himself,  it  is  surely  one  of  his  assistants." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  live  peacefully  with  such  neigh- 
bours close  by." 

"I  am  afraid  for  the  children." 

"And  for  your  soul?" 

Two  elderly  women  rise  silently  and  go  away. 
Then  a  third,  an  old  woman,  also  rises. 

"We  must  ask  the  abbot  whether  it  isn't  a  sin  to 
look  at  such  a  light." 

She  goes  off.  The  smoke  in  the  sky  is  ever  increas- 
ing and  the  fire  is  subsiding,  and  the  unknown  city 
is  already  near  its  dark  end.  The  sea  odour  is  grow- 
ing ever  sharper  and  stronger.  Night  is  coming  from 
the  shore. 


THE  OCEAN  [71 

Their  heads  turned,  the  women  watch  the  depart- 
ing old  woman.  Then  they  turn  again  toward  the 
light. 

Mariet,  as  though  defending  some  one,  says  softly: 

"There  can't  be  anything  bad  in  light.  For  there 
is  light  in  the  candles  on  God's  altar." 

**But  there  is  also  fire  for  Satan  in  hell,"  says  an- 
other old  woman,  heavily  and  angrily,  and  then  goes 
off.     Now  four  remain,  all  young  girls. 

"I  am  afraid,"  says  one,  pressing  close  to  her 
companion. 

The  noiseless  and  cold  conflagration  in  the  sky  is 
ended ;  the  city  is  destroyed ;  the  unknown  land  is  in 
ruins.  There  are  no  longer  any  walls  or  falling  tow- 
ers; a  heap  of  pale  blue  gigantic  shapes  have  fallen 
silently  into  the  abyss  of  the  ocean  and  the  night.  A 
young  little  star  glances  at  the  earth  with  frightened 
eyes;  it  feels  like  coming  out  of  the  clouds  near  the 
castle,  and  because  of  its  inmost  neighbourship  the 
heavy  castle  grows  darker,  and  the  light  in  its  window 
seems  redder  and  darker. 

"Good  night,  Mariet,"  says  the  girl  who  sat  alone, 
and  then  she  goes  off. 

"Let  us  also  go;  it  is  getting  cold,"  say  the  other 
two,  rising.    "Good  night,  Mariet," 

"Good  night." 

"Why  are  you  alone,  Mariet?  Why  are  you  alone, 
Mariet,  in  the  daytime  and  at  night,  on  week  days 
and  on  merry  holidays?  Do  you  love  to  think  of 
your  betrothed?" 

"Yes,  I  do.    I  love  to  think  of  Philipp." 


n  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

The  girl  laughs. 

"But  you  don't  want  to  see  him.  When  he  goes 
out  to  sea,  you  look  at  the  sea  for  hours;  when  he 
comes  back — ^you  are  not  there.  Where  are  you  hid- 
ing yourself?" 

"I  love  to  think  of  Philipp." 

"Like  a  blind  man  he  gropes  among  the  houses, 
forever  calling:  'Mariet!  Mariet!  Have  you  not 
seen  Mariet?'  " 

They  go  off  laughing  and  repeating: 

' '  Good  night,  Mariet.  '  Have  you  not  seen  Mariet ! 
Mariet!'  " 

The  girl  is  left  alone.  She  looks  at  the  light  in 
the  castle.    She  hears  soft,  irresolute  footsteps. 

Old  Dan,  of  small  stature,  slim,  a  coughing  old  man 
with  a  clean-shaven  face,  comes  out  from  behind  the 
church.  Because  of  his  irresoluteness,  or  because  of 
the  weakness  of  his  eyes,  he  steps  uncertainly,  touch- 
ing the  ground  cautiously  and  with  a  certain  degree 
of  fear. 

"Oho!     Oho!" 

"Is  that  you,  Dan?" 

* '  The  sea  is  calm,  Dan.  Are  you  going  to  play  to- 
night?" 

"Oho!  I  shall  ring  the  bell  seven  times.  Seven 
times  I  shall  ring  it  and  send  to  God  seven  of  His 
holy  hours." 

He  takes  the  rope  of  the  bell  and  strikes  the  hour 
— seven  ringing  and  slow  strokes.  The  wind  plays 
with  them,  it  drops  them  to  the  ground,  but  before 
they  touch  it,  it  catches  them  tenderly,  sways  them 


THE  OCEAN  73 

softly  and  with  a  light  accompaniment  of  whistling 
carries  them  off  to  the  dark  coast. 

"Oh,  no!"  mutters  Dan.  ''Bad  hours,  they  fall 
to  the  ground.  They  are  not  His  holy  hours  and  He 
will  send  them  back.  Oh,  a  storm  is  coming!  0 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  those  who  are  perishing  at  sea ! ' ' 

He  mutters  and  coughs. 

"Dan,  I  have  seen  the  ship  again  to-day.  Do  you 
hear,  Dan?" 

*'Many  ships  are  going  out  to  sea." 

"But  this  one  had  back  sails.  It  was  again  going 
toward  the  sun." 

"Many  ships  are  going  out  to  sea.  Listen,  Mariet, 
there  was  once  a  wise  king — Oh,  how  wise  he  was! — 
and  he  commanded  that  the  sea  be  lashed  with  chains. 
Oho!" 

"I  know,  Dan.    You  told  me  about  it." 

"Oho,  with  chains!  But  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
to  christen  the  sea.  Why  did  it  not  occur  to  him  to 
do  that,  Mariet?  Ah,  why  did  he  not  think  of  it? 
"We  have  no  such  kings  now." 

"What  would  have  happened,  Dan?" 

"Oho!" 

He  whispers  softly: 

'  *  All  the  rivers  and  the  streams  have  already  been 
christened,  and  the  cross  of  the  Lord  has  touched 
even  many  stagnant  swamps;  only  the  sea  remained 
— that  nasty,  salty,  deep  pool." 

"Why  do  you  scold  it?  It  does  not  like  to  be 
scolded,"  Mariet  reproaches  him. 

"Oho!    Let  the  sea  not  like  it — I  am  not  afraid 


74  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

of  it.  The  sea  thinks  it  is  also  an  organ  and  music 
for  God.  It  is  a  nasty,  hissing,  furious  pool.  A 
salty  spit  of  satan.    Fie !     Fie !     Fie ! " 

He  goes  to  the  doors  at  the  entrance  of  the  church 
muttering  angrily,  threatening,  as  though  celebrating 
some  victory: 

"Oho!    Oho!" 

"Dan!" 

"Go  home." 

"Dan!  Why  don't  you  light  candles  when  you 
play?  Dan,  I  don't  love  my  betrothed.  Do  you  hear, 
Dan?" 

Dan  turns  his  head  unwillingly. 

"I  have  heard  it  long  ago,  Mariet.  Tell  it  to  your 
father." 

"Where  is  my  mother,  Dan?" 

"Oho!  You  are  mad  again,  Mariet?  You  are 
gazing  too  much  at  the  sea — yes.  I  am  going  to  tell 
— I  am  going  to  tell  your  father,  yes." 

Pie  enters  the  church.  Soon  the  sounds  of  the 
organ  are  heard.  Faint  in  the  first,  long-drawn, 
deeply  pensive  chords,  they  rapidly  gain  strength. 
And  with  a  passionate  sadness,  their  human  mel- 
odies now  wrestle  with  the  dull  and  gloomy  plaintive- 
ness  of  the  tireless  surf.  Like  seagulls  in  a  storm,  the 
sounds  soar  amidst  the  high  waves,  unable  to  rise 
higher  on  their  overburdened  wings.  The  stern  ocean 
holds  them  captive  by  its  wild  and  eternal  charms. 
But  Avhen  they  have  risen,  the  lowered  ocean  roars 
more  dully ;  now  they  rise  still  higher — and  the  heavy, 
almost  voiceless  pile  of  water  is  shaking  helplessly. 


THE  OCEAN  75 

Varied  voices  resound  through  the  expanse  of  the  re- 
splendent distances.  Day  has  one  sorrow,  night  has 
another  sorrow,  and  the  proud,  ever  rebellious,  black 
ocean  suddenly  seems  to  become  an  eternal  slave. 

Her  cheek  pressed  against  the  cold  stone  of  the 
wall,  Mariet  is  listening,  all  alone.  She  is  growing 
reconciled  to  something;  she  is  grieving  ever  more 
quietly. 

Suddenly,  firm  footsteps  are  heard  on  the  road; 
the  cobblestones  are  creaking  under  the  vigorous 
steps — and  a  man  appears  from  behind  the  church. 
He  walks  slowly  and  sternly,  like  those  who  do  not 
roam  in  vain,  and  who  know  the  earth  from  end  to 
end.  He  carries  his  hat  in  his  hands ;  he  is  thinking 
of  something,  looking  ahead.  On  his  broad  shoul- 
ders is  set  a  round,  strong  head,  with  short  hair; 
his  dark  profile  is  stern  and  commandingly  haughty, 
and,  although  the  man  is  dressed  in  a  partly  military 
uniform,  he  does  not  subject  his  body  to  the  dis- 
cipline of  his  clothes,  but  masters  it  as  a  free  man. 
The  folds  of  his  clothes  fall  submissively. 

Mariet  greets  him: 

"Good  evening." 

He  walks  on  quite  a  distance,  then  stops  and  turns 
his  head  slowly.  He  waits  silently,  as  though  re- 
gretting to  part  with  his  silence. 

''Did  you  say  'Good  evening'  to  me?"  he  asks  at 
last. 

"Yes,  to  you.     Good  evening." 

He  looks  at  her  silently. 

"Well,  good  evening.     This  is  the  first  time  I  have 


76  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

been  greeted  in  this  land,  and  I  was  surprised  when 
I  heard  your  voice.  Come  nearer  to  me.  Why  don't 
you  sleep  when  all  are  sleeping  ?    Whq  are  you  ? ' ' 

"I  am  the  daughter  of  the  abbot  of  this  place." 

He  laughs: 

"Have  priests  children?  Or  are  there  special 
priests  in  your  land?" 

"Yes,  the  priests  are  different  here." 

^'Now,  I  recall,  Khorre  told  me  something  about  the 
priest  of  this  place." 

"Who  is  Khorre?" 

"My  sailor.  The  one  who  buys  gin  in  your  settle- 
ment. ' ' 

He  suddenly  laughs  again  and  continues: 

"Yes,  he  told  me  something.  Was  it  your  father 
who  cursed  the  Pope  and  declared  his  own  church  in- 
dependent ? ' ' 

"Yes." 

"And  he  makes  his  own  prayers?  And  goes  to 
sea  with  the  fishermen  ?  And  punishes  with  his  own 
hands  those  who  disobey  him?" 

"Yes.  I  am  his  daughter.  My  name  is  Mariet. 
And  what  is  your  name?" 

"I  have  many  names.  Which  one  shall  I  tell 
you?" 

"The  one  by  which  you  were  christened." 

"What  makes  you  think  that  I  was  christened?" 

"Then  tell  me  the  name  by  which  your  mother 
called  you." 

"What  makes  you  think  that  I  had  a  mother?  I 
do  not  know  my  mother." 


THE  OCEAN  T7 

Mariet  says  softly: 

** Neither  do  I  know  my  mother." 

Both  are  silent.     They  look  at  each  other  kindly. 

"Is  that  so?"  he  says.  "You,  too,  don't  know 
your  mother?    Well,  then,  call  me  Haggart." 

"Haggart?" 

"Yes,  Do  you  like  the  name?  I  have  invented  it 
myself — Haggart.  It's  a  pity  that  you  have  been 
named  already.  I  would  have  invented  a  fine  name 
for  you." 

Suddenly  he  frowned. 

"Tell  me,  Mariet,  why  is  your  land  so  mournful? 
I  walk  along  your  paths  and  only  the  cobblestones 
creak  under  my  feet.  And  on  both  sides  are  huge 
rocks." 

"That  is  on  the  road  to  the  castle — none  of  us  ever 
go  there.  Is  it  true  that  these  stones  stop  the  pass- 
ersby  with  the  question:  'Where  are  you  go- 
ing?" 

"No,  they  are  mute.  Why  is  your  land  so  mourn- 
ful? It  is  almost  a  week  since  I've  seen  my  shadow. 
It  is  impossible!     I  don't  see  my  shadow." 

"Our  land  is  very  cheerful  and  full  of  joy.  It  is 
still  winter  now,  but  soon  spring  will  come,  and  sun- 
shine will  come  back  with  it.  You  shall  see  it,  Hag- 
gart." 

He  speaks  with  contempt: 

"And  you  are  sitting  and  waiting  calmly  for  its 
return?  You  must  be  a  fine  set  of  people!  Ah,  if 
I  only  had  a  ship ! ' ' 

"What  would  you  have  done?" 


78  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

He  looks  at  her  morosely  and  shakes  his  head 
suspiciously. 

"You  are  too  inquisitive,  little  girl.  Has  any  one 
sent  you  over  to  me?" 

"No.    What  do  you  need  a  ship  for?" 

Haggart  laughs  good-naturedly  and  ironically: 

* '  She  asks  what  a  man  needs  a  ship  for.  You  must 
be  a  fine  set  of  people.  You  don't  know  what  a  man 
needs  a  ship  for!  And  you  speak  seriously?  If  I 
had  a  ship  I  would  have  rushed  toward  the  sun.  And 
it  would  not  matter  how  it  sets  its  golden  sails,  I 
would  overtake  it  with  my  black  sails.  And  I  would 
force  it  to  outline  my  shadow  on  the  deck  of  my  ship. 
And  I  would  put  my  foot  upon  it  this  way ! ' ' 

He  stamps  his  foot  firmly.  Then  Mariet  asks,  cau- 
tiously : 

"Did  you  say  with  black  sails?" 

"That's  what  I  said.  Why  do  you  always  ask 
questions?    I  have  no  ship,  you  know.     Good-bye." 

He  puts  on  his  hat,  but  does  not  move.  Mariet 
maintains  silence.     Then  he  says,  very  angrily: 

"Perhaps  you,  too,  like  the  music  of  your  old  Dan, 
that  old  fool?" 

"You  know  his  name?" 

"Khorre  told  me  it.  I  don't  like  his  music,  no,  no. 
Bring  me  a  good,  honest  dog,  or  beast,  and  he  will 
howl.  You  will  say  that  he  knows  no  music — he 
does,  but  he  can't  bear  falsehood.  Here  is  music. 
Listen!" 

He  takes  Mariet  by  the  hand  and  turns  her  roughly, 
her  face  toward  the  ocean. 


THE  OCEAN  79 

"Do  you  hear?  This  is  music.  Your  Dan  has 
robbed  the  sea  and  the  wind.  No,  he  is  worse  than 
a  thief,  he  is  a  deceiver!  He  should  be  hanged  on 
a  sailyard — your  Dan!    Good-bye!" 

He  goes,  but  after  taking  two  step?  he  turns  around. 

**I  said  good-bye  to  you.  Go  home.  Let  this  fool 
play  alone.    Well,  go." 

Mariet  is  silent,  motionless.    Haggart  laughs: 

"Are  you  afraid  perhaps  that  I  have  forgotten 
your  name?  I  remember  it.  Your  name  is  Mariet. 
Go,  Mariet." 

She  says  softly: 

"I  have  seen  your  ship." 

Haggart  advances  to  her  quickly  and  bends  down. 
His  face  is  terrible. 

"It  is  not  true.    ,When?" 

"Last  evening." 

"It  is  not  true!    Which  way  was  it  going?" 

"Toward  the  sun." 

"Last  evening  I  was  drunk  and  I  slept.  But  this 
is  not  true.  I  have  never  seen  it.  You  are  testing 
me.    Beware ! ' ' 

"Shall  I  tell  you  if  I  see  it  again?" 

"How  can  you  tell  me?" 

"I  shall  come  up  your  hill." 

Haggart  looks  at  her  attentively. 

"If  you  are  only  telling  me  the  truth.  What  sort 
of  people  are  there  in  your  land — false  or  not?  In 
the  lands  I  know,  all  the  people  are  false.  Has  any 
one  else  seen  that  ship  ? ' ' 

"I  don't  know.     I  was  alone  on  the  shore.    Now 


80  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

I  see  that  it  was  nqt  your  ship.  You  are  not  glad 
to  hear  of  it." 

Haggart  is  silent,  as  though  he  has  forgotten  her 
presence. 

"You  have  a  pretty  uniform.  You  are  silent?  I 
shall  come  up  to  you." 

Ilaggart  is  silent.  His  dark  profile  is  stem  and 
wildly  gloomy;  every  motion  of  his  powerful  body, 
every  fold  of  his  clothes,  is  full  of  the  dull  silence  of 
the  taciturnity  of  long  hours,  or  days,  or  perhaps  of 
a  lifetime. 

"Your  sailor  will  not  kill  me?  You  are  silent. 
I  have  a  betrothed.  His  name  is  Philipp,  but  I  don't 
love  him.  You  are  now  like  that  rock  which  lies  on 
the  road  leading  to  the  castle." 

Haggart  turns  around  silently  and  starts. 

"I  also  remember  your  name.  Your  name  is  Hag- 
gart." 

He  goes  away. 

"Haggart!"  calls  Mariet,  but  he  has  already  dis- 
appeared behind  the  house.  Only  the  creaking  of 
the  scattered  cobblestones  is  heard,  dying  away  in  the 
misty  air.  Dan,  who  has  taken  a  rest,  is  playing 
again ;  he  is  telling  God  about  those  who  have  perished 
at  sea. 

The  night  is  growing  darker.  Neither  the  rock 
nor  the  castle  is  visible  now;  only  the  light  in  the 
window  is  redder  and  brighter. 

The  dull  thuds  of  the  tireless  breakers  are  telling 
the  story  of  different  lives. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  STRONG  wind  is  tossing  the  fragment  of  a 
sail  which  is  hanging  over  the  large,  open 
window.  The  sail  is  too  small  to  cover  the 
entire  window,  and,  through  the  gaping  hole,  the  dark 
night  is  breathing  inclement  weather.  There  is  no 
rain,  but  the  warm  wind,  saturated  with  the  sea,  is 
heavy  and  damp. 

Here  in  the  tower  live  Haggart  and  his  sailor, 
Khorre.  Both  are  sleeping  now  a  heavy,  drunken 
sleep.  On  the  table  and  in  the  corners  of  the  room 
there  are  empty  bottles,  and  the  remains  of  food;  the 
only  taburet  is  overturned,  lying  on  one  side.  To- 
ward evening  the  sailor  got  up,  lit  a  large  illumination 
lamp,  and  was  about  to  do  more,  but  he  was  overcome 
by  intoxication  again  and  fell  asleep  upon  his  thin 
mattress  of  straw  and  seagrass.  Tossed  by  the  wind, 
the  flame  of  the  illumination-lamp  is  quivering  in  yel- 
low, restless  spots  over  the  uneven,  mutilated  walls, 
losing  itself  in  the  dark  opening  of  the  door,  which 
leads  to  the  other  rooms  of  the  castle. 

Haggart  lies  on  his  back,  and  the  same  quivering 
yellow  shades  run  noiselessly  over  his  strong  fore- 
head, approach  his  closed  eyes,  his  straight,  sharply 
outlined  nose,  and,  tossing  about  in  confusion,  rush 
back  to  the  wall.     The  breathing  of  the  sleeping  man 

81 


82  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

is  deep  and  uneven;  from  time  to  time  his  heavy, 
strange  hand  lifts  itself,  makes  several  weak,  unfin- 
ished movements,  and  falls  down  on  his  breast  help- 
lessly. 

Outside  the  window  the  breakers  are  roaring  and 
raging,  beating  against  the  rocks — this  is  the  second 
day  a  storm  is  raging  in  the  ocean.  The  ancient  tower 
is  quivering  from  the  violent  blows  of  the  waves.  It 
responds  to  the  storm  with  the  rustling  of  the  fall- 
ing plaster,  with  the  rattling  of  the  little  cobble- 
stones as  they  are  torn  down,  with  the  whisper  and 
moans  of  the  wind  which  has  lost  its  way  in  the 
passages.  It  whispers  and  mutters  like  an  old 
woman. 

The  sailor  begins  to  feel  cold  on  the  stone  floor, 
on  which  the  wind  spreads  itself  like  water ;  he  tosses 
about,  folds  his  legs  under  himself,  draws  his  head 
into  his  shoulders,  gropes  for  his  imaginary  clothes, 
but  is  unable  to  wake  up — his  intoxication  produced 
by  a  two  days'  spree  is  heavy  and  severe.  But  now 
the  wind  whines  more  powerfully  than  before;  some- 
thing heaves  a  deep  groan.  Perhaps  a  part  of  a  de- 
stroyed wall  has  sunk  into  the  sea.  The  quivering 
yellow  spots  commence  to  toss  about  upon  the  crooked 
wall  more  desperately,  and  Khorre  awakes. 

He  sits  up  on  his  mattress,  looks  around,  but  is  un- 
able to  understand  anything. 

The  wind  is  hissing  like  a  robber  summoning  other 
robbers,  and  filling  the  night  with  disquieting  phan- 
toms. It  seems  as  if  the  sea  were  full  of  sinking 
vessels,  of  people  who  are  drowning  and  desperately 


THE  OCEAN  83 

struggling  with  death.  Voices  are  heard.  Somewhere 
near  by  people  are  shouting,  scolding  each  other,  laugh- 
ing and  singing,  like  madmen,  or  talking  sensibly  and 
rapidly — it  seems  that  soon  one  will  see  a  strange  hu- 
man face  distorted  by  horror  or  laughter,  or  fingers 
bent  convulsively.  But  there  is  a  strong  smell  of  the 
sea,  and  that,  together  with  the  cold,  brings  Khorre 
to  his  senses. 

"Noni!"  he  calls  hoarsely,  but  Haggart  does  not 
hear  him.  After  a  moment's  thought,  he  calls  once 
more: 

"Captain.    Noni!    Get  up." 

But  Haggart  does  not  answer  and  the  sailor  mut- 
ters: 

"Noni  is  drunk  and  he  sleeps.  Let  him  sleep. 
Oh,  what  a  cold  night  it  is.  There  isn't  enough 
warmth  in  it  even  to  warm  your  nose.  I  am  cold.  I 
feel  cold  and  lonesome,  Noni.  I  can't  drink  like  that, 
although  everybody  knows  I  am  a  drunkard.  But  it 
is  one  thing  to  drink,  and  another  to  drown  in  gin — 
that's  an  entirely  different  matter.  Noni — you  are 
like  a  drowned  man,  simply  like  a  corpse.  I  feel 
ashamed  for  your  sake,  Noni.  I  shall  drink  now 
and—" 

He  rises,  and  staggering,  finds  an  unopened  bottle 
and  drinks. 

"A  fine  wind.  They  call  this  a  storm — do  you 
hear,  Noni  ?  They  call  this  a  storm.  What  will  they 
call  a  real  storm?" 

He  drinks  again. 

"A  fine  wind!" 


84  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

He  goes  over  to  the  window  and,  pushing  aside  the 
corner  of  the  sail,  looks  out. 

"Not  a  single  light  on  the  sea,  or  in  the  village. 
They  have  hidden  themselves  and  are  sleeping — they 
are  waiting  for  the  storm  to  pass.  B-r-r,  how  cold! 
I  would  have  driven  them  all  out  to  sea ;  it  is  mean  to 
go  to  sea  only  when  the  weather  is  calm.  That  is 
cheating  the  sea.  I  am  a  pirate,  that's  true ;  my  name 
is  Khorre,  and  I  should  have  been  hanged  long  ago 
on  a  yard,  that's  true,  too — but  I  shall  never  allow 
myself  such  meanness  as  to  cheat  the  sea.  Why  did 
you  bring  me  to  this  hole,  Noni?" 

He  picks  up  some  brushwood,  and  throws  it  into 
the  fireplace. 

"I  love  you,  Noni.  I  am  now  going  to  start  a  fire 
to  warm  your  feet.  I  used  to  be  your  nurse,  Noni; 
but  you  have  lost  your  reason — that's  true.  I  am  a 
wise  man,  but  I  don't  understand  your  conduct  at 
all.  Why  did  you  drop  your  ship?  You  will  be 
hanged,  Noni,  you  will  be  hanged,  and  I  Avill  dan- 
gle by  your  side.  You  have  lost  your  reason,  that's 
true!" 

He  starts  a  fire,  then  prepares  food  and  drink. 

"What  will  you  say  when  you  wake  up?  'Fire.' 
And  I  will  answer,  'Here  it  is.'  Then  you  will  say, 
'Something  to  drink.'  And  I  will  answer,  'Here  it 
is.'  And  then  you  will  drink  your  fill  again,  and  I 
will  drink  with  you,  and  you  will  prate  nonsense. 
How  long  is  this  going  to  last?  We  have  lived  this 
way  two  mouths  now,  or  perhaps  two  years,  or  twenty 


THE  OCEAN  85 

years — I  am  drowning  in  gin — I  don't  understand 
your  conduct  at  all,  Noni." 

He  drinks. 

''Either  I  have  lost  my  mind  from  this  gin,  or  a 
ship  is  being  wrecked  near  by.  How  they  are  cry- 
ing!" 

He  looks  out  of  the  window. 

"No,  no  one  is  here.  It  is  the  wind.  The  wind 
feels  weary,  and  it  plays  all  by  itself.  It  has  s^en 
many  shipwrecks,  and  now  it  is  inventing.  The  wind 
itself  is  crying;  the  wind  itself  is  scolding  and  sob- 
bing; and  the  wind  itself  is  laughing — the  rogue! 
But  if  you  think  that  this  rag  with  which  I  have  cov- 
ered the  window  is  a  sail,  and  that  this  ruin  of  a  castle 
is  a  three-masted  brig,  you  are  a  fool!  We  are  not 
going  anywhere!  We  are  standing  securely  at  our 
moorings,  do  you  hear?" 

He  pushes  the  sleeping  man  cautiously. 

"Get  up,  Noni.  I  feel  lonesome.  If  we  must 
drink,  let's  drink  together — I  feel  lonesome.     Noni!" 

Haggart  awakens,  stretches  himself  and  says,  with- 
out opening  his  eyes : 

"Fire." 

"Here  it  is." 

"Something  to  drink." 

"Here  it  is!  A  fine  wind,  Noni.  I  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and  the  sea  splashed  into  my  eyes.  It  is 
high  tide  now  and  the  water-dust  flies  up  to  the  tower. 
I  feel  lonesome,  Noni.  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Don 't 
be  angry!" 


86  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

**It's  cold." 

"Soon  the  fire  will  burn  better,  I  don't  under- 
stand your  actions.  Don't  be  angry,  Noni,  but  I 
don 't  understand  your  actions !  I  am  afraid  that  you 
have  lost  your  mind." 

* '  Did  you  drink  again  ? '  * 

"I  did." 

"Give  me  some." 

He  drinks  from  the  mouth  of  the  bottle  lying  on 
the  floor,  his  eyes  wandering  over  the  crooked  muti- 
lated walls,  whose  every  projection  and  crack  is  now 
lighted  by  the  bright  flame  in  the  fireplace.  He  is 
not  quite  sure  yet  whether  he  is  awake,  or  whether  it 
is  all  a  dream.  With  each  strong  gust  of  wind  the 
flame  is  hurled  from  the  fireplace,  and  then  the  entire 
tower  seems  to  dance — the  last  shadows  melt  and  rush 
off  into  the  open  door. 

"Don't  drink  it  all  at  once,  Noni!  Not  all  at 
once!"  says  the  sailor  and  gently  takes  the  bottle 
away  from  him.  Haggart  seats  himself  and  clasps 
his  head  with  both  hands. 

"I  have  a  headache.  What  is  that  cry?  Was 
there  a  shipwreck?" 

"No,  Noni.    It  is  the  wind  playing  roguishly." 

"Khorre!" 

"Captain." 

"Give  me  the  bottle." 

He  drinks  a  little  more  and  sets  the  bottle  on  the 
table.  Then  he  paces  the  room,  straightening  his 
shoulders  and  his  chest,  and  looks  out  of  the  window- 
Khorre  looks  over  his  shoulder  and  whispers: 


THE  OCEAN  87 

"Not  a  single  light.  It  is  dark  and  deserted. 
Those  who  had  to  die  have  died  already,  and  the  cau- 
tious cowards  are  sitting  on  the  solid  earth." 

Haggart  turns  around  and  says,  wiping  his  face : 

' '  When  I  am  intoxicated,  I  hear  voices  and  singing. 
Does  that  happen  to  you,  too,  Khorre?  Who  is  that 
singing  now  ? ' ' 

"The  wind  is  singing,  Noni— only  the  wind." 

"No,  but  who  else?  It  seems  to  me  a  human  being 
is  singing,  a  woman  is  singing,  and  others  are  laugh- 
ing and  shouting  something.  Is  that  all  nothing  but 
the  wind?" 

"Only  the  wind." 

"Why  does  the  wind  deceive  me?"  says  Haggart 
haughtily. 

' '  It  feels  lonesome,  Noni,  just  as  I  do,  and  it  laughs 
at  the  human  beings.  Have  you  heard  the  wind  lying 
like  this  and  mocking  in  the  open  sea  ?  There  it  tells 
the  truth,  but  here — it  frightens  the  people  on  shore 
and  mocks  them.  The  wind  does  not  like  cowards. 
You  know  it." 

Haggart  says  morosely : 

"I  heard  their  organist  playing  not  long  ago  in 
church.    He  lies." 

"They  are  all  liars. " 

"No!"  exclaims  Haggart  angrily.  "Not  all. 
There  are  some  who  tell  the  truth  there,  too.  I  shall 
cut  your  ears  off  if  you  will  slander  honest  people. 
Do  you  hear?" 

"Yes." 

They  are  silent ;  they  listen  to  the  wild  music  of  the 


88  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

sea.  The  wind  has  evidently  grown  mad.  Having 
taken  into  its  embrace  a  multitude  of  instruments  with 
which  human  beings  produce  their  music — harps, 
reed-pipes,  priceless  violins,  heavy  drums  and 
brass  trumpets — it  breaks  them  all,  together  with  a 
wave,  against  the  sharp  rocks.  It  dashes  them  and 
bursts  into  laughter — only  thus  does  the  wind  under- 
stand music — each  time  in  the  death  of  an  instru- 
ment, each  time  in  the  breaking  of  strings,  in  the  snap- 
ping of  the  clanging  brass.  Thus  does  the  mad  mu- 
sician understand  music.  Haggart  heaves  a  deep  sigh 
and  with  some  amazement,  like  a  man  just  awakened 
from  sleep,  looks  around  on  all  sides.  Then  he  com- 
mands shortly : 

"Give  me  my  pipe." 

"Here  it  is." 

Both  commence  to  smoke. 

"Don't  be  angry,  Noni,"  says  the  sailor.  "You 
have  become  so  angry  that  one  can 't  come  near  you  at 
all.    May  I  chat  with  you  ? ' ' 

"There  are  some  who  do  tell  the  truth  there,  too," 
says  Haggart  sternly,  emitting  rings  of  smoke. 

' '  How  shall  I  say  it  you,  Noni  ? ' '  answers  the  sailor 
cautiously  but  stubbornly.  "There  are  no  truthful 
people  there.  It  has  been  so  ever  since  the  deluge. 
At  that  time  all  the  honest  people  went  out  to  sea, 
and  only  the  cowards  and  liars  remained  upon  the 
solid  earth." 

Haggart  is  silent  for  a  minute;  then  he  takes  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth  and  laughs  gaily. 

"Have  you  invented  it  yourself?" 


THE  OCEAN  89 

**I  think  so,"  says  Khorre  modestly. 

"Clever!  And  it  was  worth  teaching  you  sacred 
history  for  that !    Were  you  taught  by  a  priest  ? ' ' 

"Yes.  In  prison.  At  that  time  I  was  as  innocent 
as  a  dove.  That's  also  from  sacred  scriptures,  Noni. 
That's  what  they  always  say  there." 

"He  was  a  fool !  It  was  not  necessary  to  teach  you, 
but  to  hang  you,"  says  Haggart,  adding  morosely: 
"Don't  talk  nonsense,  sailor.     Hand  me  a  bottle." 

They  drink.  Khorre  stamps  his  foot  against  the 
stone  floor  and  asks: 

"Do  you  like  this  motionless  floor?" 

"I  should  have  liked  to  have  the  deck  of  a  ship 
dancing  under  my  feet." 

"Noni  I"  exclaims  t^e  sailor  enthusiastically. 
"Noni!  Now  I  hear  real  words!  Let  us  go  away 
from  here.  I  cannot  live  like  this.  I  am  drowning 
in  gin.  I  don 't  understand  your  actions  at  all,  Noni ! 
You  have  lost  your  mind.  Reveal  yourself  to  me,  ray 
boy.  I  was  your  nurse.  I  nursed  you,  Noni,  when 
your  father  brought  you  on  board  ship.  I  remember 
how  the  city  was  burning  then  and  we  were  putting 
out  to  sea,  and  I  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  you; 
you  whined  like  a  little  pig  in  the  cook's  room.  I  even 
wanted  to  throw  you  overboard — you  annoyed  me  so 
much.  Ah,  Noni,  it  is  all  so  touching  that  I  can't 
bear  to  recall  it.  I  must  have  a  drink.  Take  a  drink, 
too,  my  boy,  but  not  all  at  once,  not  all  at  once ! ' ' 

They  drink.  Haggart  paces  the  room  heavily  and 
slowly,  like  a  man  who  is  imprisoned  in  a  dungeon  but 
does  not  want  to  escape. 


90  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"I  feel  sad,"  he  says,  without  looking  at  Khorre. 
Khorre,  as  though  understanding,  shakes  his  head 
in  assent. 

*'Sad?     I  understand.     Since  then?" 

"Ever  since  then." 

*  *  Ever  since  -we  drowned  those  people  ?  They  cried 
so  loudly." 

"I  did  not  hear  their  cry.  But  this  I  heard — 
something  snapped  in  my  heart,  Khorre.  Always 
sadness,  everywhere  sadness!     Let  me  drink!" 

He  drinks. 

"He  who  cried — am  I  perhaps  afraid  of  him, 
Khorre?  That  would  be  fine!  Tears  were  trickling 
from  his  eyes;  he  wept  like  one  who  is  unfortunate. 
Why  did  he  do  that?  Perhaps  he  came  from  a  land 
where  the  people  had  never  heard  of  death — what  do 
you  think,  sailor?" 

' '  I  don 't  remember  him,  Noni.  You  speak  so  much 
about  him,  while  I  don't  remember  him." 

"He  was  a  fool,"  says  Haggart.  "He  spoilt  his 
death  for  himself,  and  spoilt  me  my  life.  I  curse 
him,  Khorre.  May  he  be  cursed.  But  that  doesn't 
matter,  Khorre — no ! ' ' 

Silence. 

"They  have  good  gin  on  this  coast,"  says  Khorre. 
"He'll  pass  easily,  Noni.  If  you  have  cursed  him 
there  will  be  no  delay;  he'll  slip  into  hell  like  an 
oyster. ' ' 

Haggart  shakes  his  head : 

"No,  Khorre,  no!  I  am  sad.  Ah,  sailor,  why  have 
I  stopped  here,  where  I  hear  the  sea?     I  should  go 


THE  OCEAN  91 

away,  far  away  on  land,  where  the  people  don't  know 
the  sea  at  all,  where  the  people  have  never  heard 
about  the  sea — a  thousand  miles  away,  five  thousand 
miles  away ! ' ' 

*' There  is  no  such  land." 

"There  is,  Khorre.  Let  us  drink  and  laugh, 
Khorre,  That  organist  lies.  Sing  something  for  me, 
Khorre — you  sing  well.  In  your  hoarse  voice  I  hear 
the  creaking  of  ropes.  Your  refrain  is  like  a  sail  that 
is  torn  by  the  storm.     Sing,  sailor!" 

Khorre  nods  his  head  gloomily. 

"No,  I  will  not  sing." 

"Then  I  shall  force  you  to  pray  as  they  prayed!" 

"You  will  not  force  me  to  pray,  either.  You  are 
the  Captain,  and  you  may  kill  me,  and  here  is  your 
revolver.  It  is  loaded,  Noni.  And  now  I  am  going 
to  speak  the  truth,  Captain!  Khorre,  the  boatswain, 
speaks  to  you  in  the  name  of  the  entire  crew." 

Haggart  says: 

"Drop  this  performance,  Khorre.  There  is  no 
crew  here.    You'd  better  drink  something." 

He  drinks. 

"But  the  crew  is  waiting  for  you,  you  know  it. 
Captain,  is  it  your  intention  to  return  to  the  ship 
and  assume  command  again?" 

"No." 

"Captain,  is  it  perhaps  your  intention  to  go  to 
the  people  on  the  coast  and  live  with  them  ? ' ' 

"No." 

"I  can't  understand  your  actions,  Noni.  ^What  do 
you  intend  to  do.  Captain?" 


92  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Haggart  drinks  silently. 

"Not  all  at  once,  Noni,  not  at  once.  Captain,  do 
you  intend  to  stay  in  this  hole  and  wait  until  the 
police  dogs  come  from  the  city  ?  Then  they  will  hang 
us,  and  not  upon  a  mast,  but  simply  on  one  of  their 
foolish  trees." 

"Yes.  The  wind  is  getting  stronger.  Do  you 
hear,  Khorre?     The  wind  is  getting  stronger!" 

"And  the  gold  which  we  have  buried  here?"  He 
points  below,  with  his  finger. 

"The  gold?  Take  it  and  go  with  it  wherever  you 
like." 

The  sailor  says  angrily : 

"You  are  a  bad  man,  Noni.  You  have  only  set  foot 
on  earth  a  little  while  ago,  and  you  already  have  the 
thoughts  of  a  traitor.  That's  what  the  earth  is  do- 
ing!" 

"Be  silent,  Khorre.  I  am  listening.  Our  sailors 
are  singing.  Do  you  hear?  No,  that's  the  wine  rush- 
ing to  my  head.  I'll  be  drunk  soon.  Give  me  an- 
other bottle." 

"Perhaps  you  wall  go  to  the  priest?  He  would 
absolve  your  sins." 

"Silence!"  roars  Haggart,  clutching  at  his  re- 
volver. 

Silence.  The  storm  is  increasing.  Haggart  paces 
the  room  in  agitation,  striking  against  the  walls.  He 
mutters  something  abruptly.  Suddenly  he  seizes  the 
sail  and  tears  it  down  furiously,  admitting  the  salty 
wind.    The  illumination  lamp  is  extinguished  and  the 


THE  OCEAN  98 

flame  in  the  fireplace  tosses  about  wildly — ^like  Hag- 
gart. 

"Why  did  you  lock  out  the  wind?  It's  better  now. 
Come  here." 

"You  were  the  terror  of  the  seas!"  says  the  sailor. 

"Yes,  I  was  the  terror  of  the  seas." 

"You  were  the  terror  of  the  coasts!  Your  famous 
name  resounded  like  the  surf  over  all  the  coasts, 
wherever  people  live.  They  saw  you  in  their  dreams. 
When  they  thought  of  the  ocean,  they  thought  of  you. 
When  they  heard  the  storm,  they  heard  you,  Noni!" 

*  *  I  burnt  their  cities.  The  deck  of  my  ship  is  shak- 
ing under  my  feet,  Khorre.  The  deck  is  shaking 
under  me!" 

He  laughs  wildly,  as  if  losing  his  senses. 

"You  sank  their  ships.  You  sent  to  the  bottom 
the  Englishman  who  was  chasing  you." 

"He  had  ten  guns  more  than  I." 

"And  you  burnt  and  drowned  him.  Do  you  re- 
member, Noni,  how  the  wind  laughed  then?  The 
night  was  as  black  as  this  night,  but  you  made  day  of 
it,  Noni.     We  were  rocked  by  a  sea  of  fire. ' ' 

Haggart  stands  pale-faced,  his  eyes  closed.  Sud- 
denly he  shouts  commandingly : 

"Boatswain!" 

"Yes,"  Khorre  jumps  up. 

"Whistle  for  everybody  to  go  up  on  deck." 

"Yes." 

The  boatswain's  shrill  whistle  pierces  sharply  into 
the  open  body  of  the  storm.    Everything  comes  to 


94  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

life,  and  it  looks  as  though  they  were  upon  the  deck  of 
a  ship.  The  waves  are  crying  with  human  voices. 
In  semi-oblivion,  Haggart  is  commanding  passionately 
and  angrily: 

' '  To  the  shrouds ! — The  studding  sails !  Be  ready, 
forepart!  Aim  at  the  ropes;  I  don't  want  to  sink 
them  all  at  once.  Starboard  the  helm,  sail  by  the 
wind.  Be  ready  now.  Ah,  fire!  Ah,  you  are  al- 
ready burning!  Board  it  now!  Get  the  hooks 
ready." 

And  Khorre  tosses  about  violently,  performing  the 
mad  instructions. 

"Yes,  yes." 

*  *  Be  braver,  boys.  Don 't  be  afraid  of  tears !  Eh, 
who  is  crying  there?  Don't  dare  cry  when  you  are 
dying.  I  '11  dry  your  mean  eyes  upon  the  fire.  Fire ! 
Fire  everywhere !  Khorre — sailor !  I  am  dying. 
They  have  poured  molten  tar  into  my  chest.  Oh, 
hew  it  burns ! ' ' 

"Don't  give  way,  Noni.  Don't  give  way.  Recall 
your  father.     Strike  them  on  the  head,  Noni!" 

"  I  can't,  Khorre.  My  strength  is  failing.  Where 
is  my  power?" 

"Strike  them  on  the  head,  Noni.  Strike  them  on 
the  head!" 

"Take  a  knife,  Khorre,  and  cut  out  my  heart. 
There  is  no  ship,  Khorre — there  is  nothing.  Cut  out 
my  heart,  comrade — throw  out  the  traitor  from  my 
breast. ' ' 

' '  I  want  to  play  some  more,  Noni.  Strike  them  on 
the  head!" 


THE  OCEAN  96 

''There  is  no  ship,  Elhorre,  there  is  nothing — it  is 
all  a  lie.     I  want  to  drink." 

He  takes  a  bottle  and  laughs: 

''Look,  sailor — here  the  wind  and  the  storm  and 
you  and  I  are  locked.     It  is  all  a  deception,  Khorre ! ' ' 

"I  want  to  play." 

"Here  my  sorrow  is  locked.  Look!  In  the  green 
glass  it  seems  like  water,  but  it  isn't  water.  Let  us 
drink,  Khorre — there  on  the  bottom  I  see  my  laughter 
and  your  song.  There  is  no  ship — there  is  nothing! 
Who  is  coming?" 

He  seizes  his  revolver.  The  fire  in  the  fire-place  is 
burning  faintly;  the  shadows  are  tossing  about — but 
two  of  these  shadows  are  darker  than  the  others  and 
they  are  walking.    Khorre  shouts: 

"Halt!" 

A  man's  voice,  heavy  and  deep,  answers: 

' '  Hush !  Put  down  your  weapons.  I  am  the  abbot 
of  this  place." 

"Fire,  Noni,  fire!     They  have  come  for  you." 

"I  have  come  to  help  you.  Put  down  your  knife, 
fool,  or  I  will  break  every  bone  in  your  body  without 
a  knife.  Coward,  are  you  frightened  by  a  woman 
and  a  priest?" 

Haggart  puts  down  his  revolver  and  says  iron- 
ically : 

"A  woman  and  a  priest!  Is  there  anything  still 
more  terrible?  Pardon  my  sailor,  Mr.  abbot,  he  is 
drunk,  and  when  he  is  drunk  he  is  very  reckless  and 
he  may  kill  you.    Khorre,  don't  turn  your  knife." 

"He  has  come  after  you,  Noni." 


96  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"I  have  come  to  warn  you;  the  tower  may  fall. 
Go  away  from  here ! ' '  says  the  abbot. 

"Why  are  you  hiding  yourself,  girl?  I  remember 
your  name;  your  name  is  Mariet,"  says  Haggart. 

*'I  am  not  hiding.  I  also  remember  your  name — 
it  is  Haggart,"  replies  Mariet. 

"Was  it  you  who  brought  him  here?" 

"I  have  told  you  that  they  are  all  traitors,  Noni," 
says  Khorre. 

"Silence!" 

"It  is  very  cold  here.  I  will  throw  some  wood  into 
the  fireplace.     May  I  do  it?"  asks  Mariet. 

"Do  it,"  answers  Haggart. 

"The  tower  will  fall  down  before  long,"  says  the 
abbot.  "Part  of  the  wall  has  caved  in  already;  it  is 
all  hollow  underneath.     Do  you  hear?" 

He  stamps  his  foot  on  the  stone  floor. 

"Where  will  the  tower  fall?" 

"Into  the  sea,  I  suppose!  The  castle  is  splitting 
the  rocks." 

Haggart  laughs: 

"Do  you  hear,  Khorre?  This  place  is  not  as  mo- 
tionless as  it  seemed  to  you — while  it  cannot  move, 
it  can  fall.  How  many  people  have  you  brought 
along  with  you,  priest,  and  where  have  you  hidden 
them?" 

"Only  two  of  us  came,  my  father  and  I,"  says 
Mariet. 

"You  are  rude  to  a  priest.  I  don't  like  that," 
says  the  abbot. 


THE  OCEAN  97 

"You  have  come  here  uninvited.  I  don't  like  that 
either,"  says  Haggart. 

* '  Why  did  you  lead  me  here,  Mariet  ?  Come, ' '  says 
the  abbot. 

Haggart  speaks  ironically : 

"And  you  leave  us  here  to  die?  That  is  un Chris- 
tian, Christian." 

"Although  I  am  a  priest,  I  am  a  poor  Christian, 
and  the  Lord  knows  it,"  says  the  abbot  angrily.  "I 
have  no  desire  to  save  such  a  rude  scamp.  Let  us  go, 
Mariet." 

"Captain?"  asks  Khorre. 

"Be  silent,  Khorre,"  says  Haggart.  "So  that's 
the  way  you  speak,  abbot ;  so  you  are  not  a  liar  ? ' ' 

"Come  with  me  and  you  shall  see." 

"Where  shall  I  go  with  you?" 

*  *  To  my  house. ' ' 

"To  your  house?  Do  you  hear,  Khorre?  To  the 
priest!  But  do  you  know  whom  you  are  calling  to 
your  house?" 

"No,  I  don't  know.  But  I  see  that  you  are  young 
and  strong.  I  see  that  although  your  face  is  gloomy, 
it  is  handsome,  and  I  think  that  you  could  be  as  good 
a  workman  as  others." 

"A  workman?  Khorre,  do  you  hear  what  the 
priest  says?" 

Both  laugh.     The  abbot  says  angrily: 

"You  are  both  drunk." 

' '  Yes,  a  little !  But  if  I  were  sober  I  would  have 
laughed  still  more,"  answers  Haggart. 

"Don't  laugh,  Haggart,"  says  Mariet. 


98  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Haggart  replies  angrily: 

"1  don't  like  the  tongues  of  false  priests,  Mariet — 
they  are  coated  with  truth  on  top,  like  a  lure  for 
flies.  Take  him  away,  and  you,  girl,  go  away,  too ! 
I  have  forgotten  your  name ! ' ' 

He  sits  down  and  stares  ahead  sternly.  His  eye- 
brows move  close  together,  and  his  hand  is  pressed 
down  heavily  by  his  lowered  head,  by  his  strong  chin. 

"He  does  not  know  you,  father!  Tell  him  about 
yourself.  You  speak  so  well.  If  you  wish  it,  he  will 
believe  you,  father.     Haggart!" 

Haggart  maintains  silence. 

"Noni!     Captain!" 

Silence.     Khorre  whispers  mysteriously: 

"He  feels  sad.  Girl,  tell  the  priest  that  he  feels 
sad." 

"Khorre,"  begins  Mariet.  Haggart  looks  around 
quickly. 

"What  about  Khorre?  Why  don't  you  like  him, 
Mariet  ?     We  are  so  much  like  each  other. ' ' 

"He  is  like  you?"  says  the  woman  with  contempt. 
"No,  Haggart!  But  here  is  what  he  did:  He  gave 
gin  to  little  Noni  again  to-day.  He  moistened  his 
finger  and  gave  it  to  him.     He  will  kill  him,  father." 

Haggart  laughs: 

"Is  that  so  bad?     He  did  the  same  to  me." 

"And  he  dipped  him  in  cold  water.  The  boy  is 
very  weak,"  says  Mariet  morosely. 

"I  don't  like  to  hear  you  speak  of  weakness.  Our 
boy  must  be  strong.  Khorre !  Three  days  without 
gin," 


THE  OCEAN  99 

He  shows  him  three  fingers. 

*'Who  should  be  without  gin?  The  boy  or  I?" 
asks  Khorre  gloomily. 

"You!"  replies  Ilaggart  furiously.     "Begone!" 

The  sailor  sullenly  gathers  his  belongings — the 
pouch,  the  pipe,  and  the  flask — and  wabbling,  goes  off. 
But  he  does  not  go  far — he  sits  down  upon  a  neigh- 
bouring rock.     Haggart  and  his  wife  look  at  him. 


X 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  work  is  ended.  Having  lost  its  gloss, 
the  last  neglected  fish  lies  on  the  ground; 
even  the  children  are  too  lazy  to  pick  it  up ; 
and  an  indifferent,  satiated  foot  treads  it  into  the 
mud.  A  quiet,  fatigued  conversation  goes  on,  mingled 
with  gay  and  peaceful  laughter. 

**What  kind  of  a  prayer  is  our  abbot  going  to  say 
to-day?    It  is  already  time  for  him  to  come." 

"And  do  you  think  it  is  so  easy  to  compose  a  good 
prayer?     He  is  thinking." 

"Selly's  basket  broke  and  the  fish  were  falling  out. 
[We  laughed  so  much !  It  seems  so  funny  to  me  even 
now ! ' ' 

Laughter.  Two  fishermen  look  at  the  sail  in  the 
distance. 

"All  my  life  I  have  seen  large  ships  sailing  past 
us.  Where  are  they  going?  They  disappear  beyond 
the  horizon,  and  I  go  off  to  sleep ;  and  I  sleep,  while 
they  are  forever  going,  going.  Where  are  they  go- 
ing?    Do  you  know?" 

"To  America." 

"I  should  like  to  go  with  them.  When  they  speak 
of  America  my  heart  begins  to  ring.  Did  you  say 
America  on  purpose,  or  is  that  the  truth?" 

Several  old  women  are  vrlii.speriug: 
100 


THE  OCEAN  101 

**Wild  Gart  is  angry  again  at  his  sailor.  Have 
you  noticed  it?" 

"The  sailor  is  displeased.  Look,  how  wan  his  face 
is." 

"Yes,  he  looks  like  the  evil  one  when  he  is  com- 
pelled to  listen  to  a  psalm.  But  I  don't  like  Wild 
Gart,  either.     No.    "Where  did  he  come  from?'' 

They  resume  their  whispers.  Haggart  complains 
softly : 

"Why  have  you  the  same  name,  Mariet,  for  every- 
body ?     It  should  not  be  so  in  a  truthful  land. ' ' 

Mariet  speaks  with  restrained  force,  pressing  both 
hands  to  her  breast : 

"I  love  you  so  dearly,  Gart;  when  you  go  out  to 
sea,  I  set  my  teeth  together  and  do  not  open  them 
until  you  come  back.  When  you  are  away,  I  eat 
nothing  and  drink  nothing;  when  you  are  away,  I 
am  silent,  and  the  women  laugh:  'Mute  Mariet!' 
But  I  would  be  insane  if  I  spoke  when  I  am  alone." 

Haggaet — Here  you  are  again  compelling  me  to 
smile.  You  must  not,  Mariet — I  am  forever  smil- 
ing. 

Mariet — I  love  you  so  dearly,  Gart.  Every  hour 
of  the  day  and  the  night  I  am  thinking  only  of  what 
I  could  still  give  to  you,  Gart.  Have  I  not  given  you 
everything?  But  that  is  so  little — everything! 
There  is  but  one  thing  I  want  to  do — to  keep  on  giving 
to  you,  giving !  When  the  sun  sets,  I  present  you  the 
sunset ;  when  the  sun  rises,  I  present  you  the  sunrise 
— take  it,  Gart!  And  are  not  all  the  storms  yours? 
Ah,  Haggart,  how  I  love  you ! 


102  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Haggart — I  am  going  to  toss  little  Noni  so  high 
to-day  that  I  will  toss  him  up  to  the  clouds.  Do  you 
want  me  to  do  it?  Let  us  laugh,  dear  little  sister 
Mariet.  You  are  exactly  like  myself.  When  you 
stand  that  way,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  standing 
there — I  have  to  rub  my  eyes.  Let  us  laugh !  Some 
day  I  may  suddenly  mix  things  up — I  may  wake  up 
and  say  to  you:  *'Good  morning,  Haggart!" 

Mariet — Good  morning,  Mariet. 

Haggart — I  will  call  you  Haggart.    Isn't  that  a 
good  idea? 
-  Mariet — And  I  will  call  you  IMariet. 

Haggart — Yes — no.  You  had  better  call  me  Hag- 
gart, too. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  call  you  Mariet?"  asks 
Mariet  sadly. 

The  abbot  and  old  Dan  appear.  The  abbot  says  in 
a  loud,  deep  voice : 

"Here  I  am.  Here  I  am  bringing  you  a  prayer, 
children.  I  have  just  composed  it ;  it  has  even  made 
me  feel  hot.  Dan,  why  doesn  't  the  boy  ring  the  bell  ? 
Oh,  yes,  he  is  ringing.  The  fool — he  isn't  swinging 
the  right  rope,  but  that  doesn't  matter;  that's  good 
enough,  too.     Isn't  it,  Mariet?" 

Two  thin  but  merry  bells  are  ringing. 

Mariet  is  silent  and  Haggart  answers  for  her: 

"That's  good  enough.  But  what  are  the  bells  say- 
ing, abbot?" 

The  fishermen  who  have  gathered  about  them  are 
already  prepared  to  laugh — the  same  undying  jest 
is  always  repeated. 


THE  OCEAN  103 

''Will  you  tell  no  one  about  it?"  says  the  abbot, 
in  a  deep  voice,  slily  winking  his  eye.  "Pope's  a 
rogue!    Pope's  a  rogue!" 

The  fishermen  laugh  merrily. 

"This  man,"  roars  the  abbot,  pointing  at  Haggart, 
"is  my  favourite  man!  He  has  given  me  a  grandson, 
and  I  wrote  the  Pope  about  it  in  Latin.  But  that 
wasn't  so  hard;  isn't  that  true,  Mariet?  But  he 
knows  how  to  look  at  the  water.  He  foretells  a  storm 
as  if  he  himself  caused  it.  Gart,  do  you  produce  the 
storm  yourself?  Where  does  the  wind  come  from? 
You  are  the  wind  yourself. ' ' 

All  laugh  approval.    An  old  fisherman  says : 

"That's  true,  father.  Ever  since  he  has  been  here, 
we  have  never  been  caught  in  a  storm. ' ' 

* '  Of  course  it  is  true,  if  I  say  it.  *  Pope 's  a  rogue ! 
Pope's  a  rogue!'  " 

Old  Dan  walks  over  to  Kliorre  and  says  something 
to  him.  Khorre  nods  his  head  negatively.  The  ab- 
bot, singing  "Pope's  a  rogue,"  goes  around  the 
crowd,  throws  out  brief  remarks,  and  claps  some  peo- 
ple on  the  shoulder  in  a  friendly  manner. 

"Hello,  Katerina,  you  are  getting  stout.  Oho !  Are 
you  all  ready?  And  Thomas  is  missing  again — this 
is  the  second  time  he  has  stayed  away  from  prayer. 
Anna,  you  are  rather  sad — that  isn't  good.  One  must 
live  merrily,  one  must  live  merrily !  I  think  that  it  is 
jolly  even  in  hell,  but  in  a  different  way.  It  is  two 
years  since  you  have  stopped  growing,  Philipp.  That 
isn't  good." 

Philipp  answers  grufifly: 


104  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"Grass  also  stops  growing  if  a  stone  falls  upon  it." 

**What  is  still  worse  than  that — ^worms  begin  to 
breed  under  the  rock." 

Mariet  says  softly,  sadly  and  entreatingly : 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  call  you  Mariet?" 

Haggart  answers  obstinately  and  sternly: 

* '  I  don 't.  If  my  name  will  be  Mariet,  I  shall  never 
kill  that  man.  He  disturbs  my  life.  Make  me  a 
present  of  his  life,  Mariet.    He  kissed  you." 

"How  can  I  present  you  that  which  is  not  mine? 
His  life  belongs  to  God  and  to  himself." 

"That  is  not  true.  He  kissed  you;  do  I  not  see 
the  burns  upon  your  lips?  Let  me  kill  him,  and  you 
will  feel  as  joyful  and  care-free  as  a  seagull.  Say 
'yes,'  Mariet." 

"No;  you  shouldn't  do  it,  Gart.  It  will  be  painful 
to  you." 

Haggart  looks  at  her  and  speaks  with  deep  irony. 

"Is  that  it?  Well,  then,  it  is  not  true  that  you 
give  me  anything.  You  don't  know  how  to  give, 
woman." 

"I  am  your  wife." 

* '  No !  A  man  has  no  wife  when  another  man,  and 
not  his  wife,  grinds  his  knife.  My  knife  is  dull, 
Mariet!" 

Mariet  looks  at  him  with  horror  and  sorrow. 

"What  did  you  say,  Haggart?  Wake  up;  it  is  a 
terrible  dream,  Haggart !  It  is  I — look  at  me.  Open 
your  eyes  wider,  wider,  until  you  see  me  well.  Do 
you  see  me,  Gart?" 

Haggart  slowly  rubs  his  brow. 


THE  OCEAN  106 

**I  don't  know.  It  is  true  I  love  you,  Mariet.  But 
how  incomprehensible  your  land  is — in  your  land  a 
man  sees  dreams  even  when  he  is  not  asleep.  Per- 
haps I  am  smiling  already.    Look,  Mariet." 

The  abbot  stops  in  front  of  Khorre. 

"Ah,  old  friend,  how  do  you  do?  You  are  smil- 
ing already.    Look,  Mariet." 

"I  don't  want  to  work,"  ejaculates  the  sailor 
sternly. 

**You  want  your  own  way?  This  man,"  roars  the 
abbot,  pointing  at  Khorre,  "thinks  that  he  is  an 
atheist.  But  he  is  simply  a  fool ;  he  does  not  under- 
stand that  he  is  also  praying  to  God — but  he  is  doing 
it  the  wrong  way,  like  a  crab.  Even  a  fish  prays  to 
God,  my  children ;  I  have  seen  it  myself.  When  you 
will  be  in  hell,  old  man,  give  my  regards  to  the  Pope. 
Well,  children,  come  closer,  and  don't  gnash  your 
teeth.  I  am  going  to  start  at  once.  Eh,  you,  Mathias 
— you  needn  't  put  out  the  fire  in  your  pipe ;  isn  't  it 
the  same  to  God  what  smoke  it  is,  incense  or  tobacco, 
if  it  is  only  well  meant.  Why  do  you  shake  your 
head,  woman?" 

Woman — His  tobacco  is  contraband. 

Young  Fisherman — God  wouldn't  bother  with 
such  trifles.     The  abbot  thinks  a  while: 

"No;  hold  on.  I  think  contraband  tobacco  is  not 
quite  so  good.  That 's  an  inferior  grade.  Look  here ; 
you  better  drop  your  pipe  meanwhile,  Mathias;  I'll 
think  the  matter  over  later.  Now,  silence,  perfect 
silence.    Let  God  take  a  look  at  us  first." 

All  stand  silent  and  serious.    Only  a  few  have  low- 


106  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

ered  their  heads.  Most  of  the  people  are  looking 
ahead  with  wide-open,  motionless  eyes,  as  though  they 
really  saw  God  in  the  blue  of  the  sky,  in  the  bound- 
less, radiant,  distant  surface  of  the  sea.  The  sea  is 
approaching  with  a  caressing  murmur;  high  tide  has 
set  in. 

"My  God  and  the  God  of  all  these  people!  Don't 
judge  us  for  praying,  not  in  Latin  but  in  our  own 
language,  which  our  mothers  have  taught  us.  Our 
God !  Save  us  from  all  kinds  of  terrors,  from  unknown 
sea  monsters;  protect  us  against  storms  and  hurri' 
canes,  against  tempests  and  gales.  Give  us  calm 
weather  and  a  kind  wind,  a  clear  sun  and  peaceful 
waves.  And  another  thing,  O  Lord !  we  ask  You ; 
don 't  allow  the  devil  to  come  close  to  our  bedside  when 
we  are  asleep.  In  our  sleep  we  are  defenceless,  O 
Lord!  and  the  devil  terrifies  us,  tortures  us  to  con- 
vulsions, torments  us  to  the  very  blood  of  our  heart. 
And  there  is  another  thing,  0  Lord!  Old  Rikke, 
whom  You  know,  is  beginning  to  extinguish  Your  light 
in  his  eyes  and  he  can  make  nets  no  longer — ' ' 

Rikke  frequently  shakes  his  head  in  assent. 

"I  can't,  I  can't!" 

''Prolong,  then,  0  Lord!  Your  bright  day  and  bid 
the  night  wait.    Am  I  right,  Rikke  ? " 

"Yes." 

"And  here  is  still  another,  the  last  request,  0  Lord. 
I  shall  not  ask  any  more :  The  tears  do  not  dry  up  in 
the  eyes  of  our  old  women  crying  for  those  who  have 
perished.  Take  their  memory  away,  0  Lord,  and 
give  them  strong  forgetfulness.     There  are  still  other 


THE  OCEAN  107 

trifles,  O  Lord,  but  let  the  others  pray  whose  turn 
has  come  before  You.     Amen." 

Silence.  Old  Dan  tugs  the  abbot  by  the  sleeve,  and 
whispers  something  in  his  ear. 

Abbot — Dan  is  asking  me  to  pray  for  those  who 
perished  at  sea. 

The  women  exclaim  in  plaintive  chorus: 

**For  those  who  perished  at  sea!  For  those  who 
died  at  sea ! " 

Some  of  them  kneel.  The  abbot  looks  tenderly  at 
their  bowed  heads,  exhausted  with  waiting  and  fear, 
and  says: 

"No  priest  should  pray  for  those  who  died  at  sea 
— these  women  should  pray.  Make  it  so,  O  Lord, 
that  they  should  not  weep  so  much ! ' ' 

Silence.  The  incoming  tide  roars  more  loudly — 
the  ocean  is  carrying  to  the  earth  its  noise,  its  secrets, 
its  bitter,  briny  taste  of  unexplored  depths. 

Soft  voices  say: 

*'The  sea  is  coming." 

"High  tide  has  started." 

"The  sea  is  coming." 

Mariet  kisses  her  father's  hand. 

"Woman!"  says  the  priest  tenderly.  "Listen, 
Gart,  isn't  it  strange  that  this — a  woman" — he 
strokes  his  daughter  tenderly  with  his  finger  on  her 
pure  forehead — "should  be  born  of  me,  a  man?" 

Haggart  smiles. 

"And  is  it  not  strange  that  this  should  have  be- 
come a  wife  to  me,  a  man?"  He  embraces  Mariet, 
bending  her  frail  shoulders. 


108  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

* '  Let  us  go  to  eat,  Gart,  my  son.  "Whoever  she  may 
be,  I  know  one  thing  well.  She  has  prepared  for  you 
and  me  an  excellent  dinner." 

The  people  disperse  quickly,  Mariet  says  con- 
fusedly and  cheerfully: 

''I'll  run  first." 

"Run,  run,"  answers  the  abbot.  "Gart,  my  son, 
call  the  atheist  to  dinner.  I'll  hit  him  with  a  spoon 
on  the  forehead;  an  atheist  understands  a  sermon 
best  of  all  if  you  hit  him  with  a  spoon. ' ' 

He  waits  and  mutters: 

"The  boy  has  commenced  to  ring  the  bells  again. 
He  does  it  for  himself,  the  rogue.  If  we  did  not  lock 
the  steeple,  they  would  pray  there  from  morning 
until  night." 

Haggart  goes  over  to  Khorre,  near  whom  Dan  is 
sitting. 

"Khorre!  Let  us  go  to  eat — the  priest  called 
you." 

"I  don't  want  to  go,  Noni." 

"So?    What  are  you  going  to  do  here  on  shore?" 

* '  I  will  think,  Noni,  think.  I  have  so  much  to  think 
to  be  able  to  understand  at  least  something." 

Haggart  turns  around  silently.  The  abbot  calls 
from  the  distance: 

"He  is  not  coming?  Well,  then,  let  him  stay  there. 
And  Dan — never  call  Dan,  my  son" — says  the  priest 
in  his  deep  whisper,  "he  eats  at  night  like  a  rat.  Ma- 
riet purposely  puts  something  away  for  him  in  the 
closet  for  the  night;  when  she  looks  for  it  in  the 


THE  OCEAN  109 

morning,  it  is  gone.  Just  think  of  it,  no  one  ever 
hears  when  he  takes  it.     Does  he  fly?" 

Both  go  off.  Only  the  two  old  men,  seated  in  a 
friendly  manner  on  two  neighbouring  rocks,  remain 
on  the  deserted  shore.  And  the  old  men  resemble 
each  other  so  closely,  and  whatever  they  may  say  to 
each  other,  the  whiteness  of  their  hair,  the  deep  lines 
of  their  wrinkles,  make  them  kin. 

The  tide  is  coming. 

"They  have  all  gone  away,"  mutters  Khorre. 
"Thus  will  they  cook  hot  soup  on  the  wrecks  of  our 
ship,  too.  Eh,  Dan!  Do  you  know  he  ordered  me 
to  drink  no  gin  for  three  days.  Let  the  old  dog 
croak!     Isn't  that  so,  Noni?" 

"Of  those  who  died  at  sea  .  .  .  Those  who  died  at 
sea,"  mutters  Dan.  "A  son  taken  from  his  father, 
a  son  from  his  father.  The  father  said  go,  and  the 
son  perished  in  the  sea.     Oi,  oi,  oi!" 

"What  are  you  prating  there,  old  man?  I  say,  he 
ordered  me  to  drink  no  gin.  Soon  he  will  order,  like 
that  King  of  yours,  that  the  sea  be  lashed  with  chains." 

"Oho!     With  chains." 

"Your  king  was  a  fool.  Was  he  married,  your 
king?" 

"The  sea  is  coming,  coming!"  mutters  Dan.  "It 
brings  along  its  noise,  its  secret,  its  deception.  Oh, 
how  the  sea  deceives  man.  Those  who  died  at  sea — 
yes,  yes,  yes.     Those  who  died  at  sea." 

"Yes,  the  sea  is  coming.  And  you  don't  like  it?" 
asks   -Khorre,    rejoicing   maliciously.    "Well,    don't 


110  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

you  like  it?  I  don't  like  your  music.  Do  you  hear, 
Dan  ?    I  hate  your  music ! ' ' 

* '  Oho !  And  why  do  you  come  to  hear  it  ?  I  know 
that  you  and  Gart  stood  by  the  wall  and  listened. ' ' 

Khorre  says  sternly: 

*  *  It  was  he  who  got  me  out  of  bed. '  * 

"He  will  get  you  out  of  bed  again." 

"No!"  roars  Khorre  furiously.  "I  will  get  up 
myself  at  night.  Do  you  hear,  Dan?  I  will  get  up 
at  night  and  break  your  music." 

"And  I  will  spit  into  your  sea." 

"Try,"  says  the  sailor  distrustfully.  "How  will 
you  spit?" 

"This  way,"  and  Dan,  exasperated,  spits  in  the 
direction  of  the  sea.  The  frightened  Khorre,  in  con- 
fusion, says  hoarsely: 

"Oh,  what  sort  of  man  are  you?  You  spat!  Eh, 
Dan,  look  out;  it  will  be  bad  for  you — you  yourself 
are  talking  about  those  who  died  at  sea." 

Dan  shouts,  frightened: 

"Who  speaks  of  those  that  perished  at  sea?  You, 
you  dog!" 

He  goes  away,  grumbling  and  coughing,  swinging 
his  hand  and  stooping.  Khorre  is  left  alone  before 
the  entire  vastness  of  the  sea  and  the  sky. 

"He  is  gone.  Then  I  am  going  to  look  at  you,  O 
sea,  until  my  eyes  will  burst  of  thirst ! ' ' 

The  ocean,  approaching,  is  roaring. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT  the  very  edge  of  the  water,  upon  a  narrow 
landing  on  the  rocky  shore,  stands  a  man — 
a  small,  dark,  motionless  dot.  Behind  him 
is  the  cold,  almost  vertical  slope  of  granite,  and 
before  his  eyes  the  ocean  is  rocking  heavily  and  dully 
in  the  impenetrable  darkness.  Its  mighty  approach 
is  felt  in  the  open  voice  of  the  waves  which  are  rising 
from  the  depths.  Even  sniffing  sounds  are  heard — 
it  is  as  though  a  drove  of  monsters,  playing,  were 
splashing,  snorting,  lying  down  on  their  backs,  and 
panting  contentedly,  deriving  their  monstrous  pleas- 
ures. 

The  ocean  smells  of  the  strong  odour  of  the  depths, 
of  decaying  seaweeds,  of  its  grass.  The  sea  is  calm 
to-day  and,  as  always,  alone. 

And  there  is  but  one  little  light  in  the  black  space 
of  water  and  night — the  distant  lighthouse  of  the 
Holy  Cross. 

The  rattle  of  cobblestones  is  heard  from  under  a 
cautious  step:  Haggart  is  coming  down  to  the-  sea 
along  a  steep  path.  He  pauses,  silent  with  restraint, 
breathing  deeply  after  the  strain  of  passing  the 
dangerous  slope,  and  goes  forward.  He  is  now  at 
the  edge — he  straightens  himself  and  looks  for  a  long 
time  at  him  who  had  long  before  taken  his  strange 

111 


11«  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

but  customary  place  at  the  very  edge  of  the  deep.  He 
makes  a  few  steps  forward  and  greets  him  irresolutely 
and  gently — Haggart  greets  him  even  timidly: 

"Good  evening,  stranger.  Have  you  been  here 
long?" 

A  sad,  soft,  and  grave  voice  answers: 

''Good  evening,  Haggart.  Yes,  I  have  been  here 
long." 

''You  are  watching?" 

"I  am  watching  and  listening." 

' '  Will  you  allow  me  to  stand  near  you  and  look  in 
the  same  direction  you  are  looking?  I  am  afraid 
that  I  am  disturbing  you  by  my  uninvited  pres- 
ence— for  when  I  came  you  were  already  here — 
but  I  am  so  fond  of  this  spot.  This  place  is  isolated, 
and  the  sea  is  near,  and  the  earth  behind  is  silent; 
and  here  my  eyes  open.  Like  a  night-owl,  I  see  bet- 
ter in  the  dark;  the  light  of  day  dazzles  me.  You 
know,  I  have  grown  up  on  the  sea,  sir." 

"No,  you  are  not  disturbing  me,  Haggart.  But 
am  I  not  disturbing  you  ?     Then  I  shall  go  away. ' ' 

"You  are  so  polite,  sir,"  mutters  Haggart. 

"But  I  also  love  this  spot,"  continues  the  sad, 
grave  voice.  "I,  too,  like  to  feel  that  the  cold  and 
peaceful  granite  is  behind  me.  You  have  grown  up 
on  the  sea,  Haggart — tell  me,  what  is  that  faint  light 
on  the  right?" 

"That  is  the  lighthouse  of  the  Holy  Cross." 

"Aha!  The  lighthouse  of  the  Holy  Cross.  I 
didn't  know  that.  But  can  such  a  faint  light  help 
in  time  of  a  storm?     I  look  and  it  always  seems  to 


THE  OCEAN  US 

me  that  the  light  is  going  out.    I  suppose  it  isn  't  so. ' ' 

Haggart,  agitated  but  restrained,  says: 

"You  frighten  me,  sir.  Why  do  you  ask  me  what 
you  know  better  than  I  do  ?  You  want  to  tempt  me — 
you  know  everything." 

There  is  not  a  trace  of  a  smile  in  the  mournful 
voice — ^nothing  but  sadness. 

"No,  I  know  little.  I  know  even  less  than  you  do, 
for  I  know  more.  Pardon  my  rather  complicated 
phrase,  Haggart,  but  the  tongue  responds  with  so 
much  difficulty  not  only  to  our  feeling,  but  also  to 
our  thought." 

"You  are  polite,"  mutters  Haggart  agitated. 
"You  are  polite  and  always  calm.  You  are  always 
sad  and  you  have  a  thin  hand  with  rings  upon  it, 
and  you  speak  like  a  very  important  personage.  Who 
are  you,  sir?" 

"I  am  he  whom  you  called — the  one  who  is  always 
sad." 

"When  I  come,  you  are  already  here;  when  I  go 
away,  you  remain.  Why  do  you  never  want  to  go 
with  me,  sir?" 

"There  is  one  way  for  you,  Haggart,  and  another 
for  me." 

"I  see  you  only  at  night.  I  know  all  the  peo- 
ple around  this  settlement,  and  there  is  no  one  who 
looks  like  you.  Sometimes  I  think  that  you  are  the 
owner  of  that  old  castle  where  I  lived.  If  that  is 
so  I  must  tell  you  the  castle  was  destroyed  by  the 
storm." 

"I  don't  know  of  whom  you  speak." 


114  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"I  don't  understand  how  you  know  my  name,  Hag- 
gart.  But  I  don't  want  to  deceive  you.  Although 
my  wife  Mariet  calls  me  so,  I  invented  that  name  my- 
self. I  have  another  name — my  real  name — of  which 
no  one  has  ever  heard  here." 

"I  know  your  other  name  also,  Haggart.  I  know 
your  third  name,  too,  which  even  you  do  not  know. 
But  it  is  hardly  worth  speaking  of  this.  You  had  bet- 
ter look  into  this  dark  sea  and  tell  me  about  your  life. 
Is  it  true  that  it  is  so  joyous?  They  say  that  you 
are  forever  smiling.  They  say  that  you  are  the  brav- 
est and  most  handsome  fisherman  on  the  coast.  And 
they  also  say  that  you  love  your  wife  Mariet  very 
dearly. ' ' 

'*0  sir!"  exclaims  Haggart  with  restraint,  *'my 
life  is  so  sad  that  you  could  not  find  an  image  like  it 
in  this  dark  deep.  0  sir!  my  sufferings  are  so  deep 
that  you  could  not  find  a  more  terrible  place  in  this 
dark  abyss." 

' '  What  is  the  cause  of  your  sorrow  and  your  suffer- 
ings, Haggart?" 

"Life,  sir.  Here  your  noble  and  sad  eyes  look  in 
the  same  direction  my  eyes  look — into  this  ter- 
rible, dark  distance.  Tell  me,  then,  what  is  stirring 
there?  What  is  resting  and  waiting  there,  what  is 
silent  there,  what  is  screaming  and  singing  and  com- 
plaining there  in  its  own  voices  ?  What  are  the  voices 
that  agitate  me  and  fill  my  soul  with  phantoms  of 
sorrow,  and  yet  say  nothing?  And  whence  comes 
this  night  ?  And  whence  comes  my  sorrow  ?  Are  you 
sighing,  sir,  or  is  it  the  sigh  of  the  ocean  blending 


THE  OCEAN  115 

with  your  voice?  My  hearing  is  beginning  to  fail 
me,  my  master,  my  dear  master." 

The  sad  voice  replies: 

*'It  is  my  sigh,  Ilaggart.  My  great  sorrow  is  re- 
sponding to  your  sorrow.  You  see  at  night  like  an 
owl,  Haggart ;  then  look  at  my  thin  hands  and  at  my 
rings.  Are  they  not  pale?  And  look  at  my  face — is 
it  not  pale  ?  Is  it  not  pale — is  it  not  pale  ?  Oh,  Hag- 
gart, my  dear  Haggart." 

They  grieve  silently.  The  heavy  ocean  is  splash- 
irtg,  tossing  about,  spitting  and  snorting  and  sniffing 
peacefully.  The  sea  is  calm  to-night  and  alone,  as 
always. 

"Tell  Haggart — "  says  the  sad  voice. 

"Very  well.     I  will  tell  Haggart." 

"Tell  Haggart  that  I  love  him." 

Silence — and  then  a  faint,  plaintive  reproach  re- 
sounds softly: 

* '  If  your  voice  were  not  so  grave,  sir,  I  would  have 
thought  that  you  were  laughing  at  me.  Am  I  not 
Haggart  that  I  should  tell  something  to  Haggart? 
But  no — I  sense  a  different  meaning  in  your  words, 
and  you  frighten  me  again.  And  when  Haggart  is 
afraid,  it  is  real  terror.  Very  well,  I  will  tell  Hag- 
gart everything  you  have  said." 

"Adjust  my  cloak;  my  shoulder  is  cold.  But  it 
always  seems  to  me  that  the  light  over  there  is  going 
out.  You  called  it  the  lighthouse  of  the  Holy  Cross, 
if  I  am  not  mistaken?" 

"Yes,  it  is  called  so  here." 

"Aha!    It  is  called  so  here." 


116  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Silence. 

*'Must  I  go  now?"  asks  Haggart. 

'♦Yes,  go." 

"And  you  will  remain  here?" 

"I  will  remain  here." 

Haggart  retreats  several  steps. 

*' Good-bye,  sir." 

*' Good-bye,  Haggart." 

Again  the  cobblestones  rattle  under  his  cautious 
steps ;  without  looking  back,  Haggart  climbs  the  steep 
rocks. 

Of  what  great  sorrow  speaks  this  night? 


Y 


CHAPTER  V 

*'^  ^OUR  hands  are  in  blood,  Haggart.    Whom 
have  you  killed,   Haggart?" 

"Silence,  Khorre,  I  killed  that  man. 
Be  silent  and  listen — he  will  commence  to  play  soon. 
I  stood  here  and  listened,  but  suddenly  my  heart  sank, 
and  I  cannot  stay  here  alone." 

"Don't  confuse  my  mind,  Noni;  don't  tempt  me. 
I  will  run  away  from  here.  At  night,  when  I  am 
already  fast  asleep,  you  swoop  down  on  me  like  a 
demon,  grab  me  by  the  neck,  and  drag  me  over  here 
— I  can't  understand  anything.  Tell  me,  my  boy, 
is  it  necessary  to  hide  the  body?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Why  didn't  you  throw  it  into  the  sea?" 

"Silence!  What  are  you  prating  about?  I  have 
nothing  to  throw  into  the  sea." 

"But  your  hands  are  in  blood." 

"Silence,  Khorre!  He  will  commence  soon.  Be 
silent  and  listen — I  say  to  you — Are  you  a  friend  to 
me  or  not,  Khorre?" 

He  drags  him  closer  to  the  dark  window  of  the 
church.     Khorre  mutters: 

"How  dark  it  is.  If  you  raised  me  out  of  bed  for 
this  accursed  music — " 

"Yes,  yes;  for  this  accursed  music." 
117. 


118  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

' '  Then  you  have  disturbed  my  honest  sleep  in  vain; 
I  want  no  music,  Noni." 

"So!  Was  I  perhaps  to  run  through  the  street, 
knock  at  the  windows  and  shout:  'Eh,  who  is  there; 
where 's  a  living  soul  ?  Come  and  help  Haggart,  stand 
up  with  him  against  the  cannons.'  " 

"You  are  confusing  things,  Noni.  Drink  some  gin, 
my  boy.     What  cannons?" 

"Silence,  sailor." 

He  drags  him  away  from  the  window. 

"Oh,  you  shake  me  like  a  squall!" 

"Silence!  I  think  he  looked  at  us  from  the  win- 
dow; something  white  flashed  behind  the  window 
pane.  You  may  laugh,  Khorre — if  he  came  out  now 
I  would  scream  like  a  woman." 

He  laughs  softly. 

"Are  you  speaking  of  Dan?  I  don't  understand 
anything,  Noni." 

"But  is  that  Dan?  Of  course  it  is  not  Dan — it  is 
some  one  else.     Give  me  your  hand,  sailor." 

"I  think  that  you  simply  drank  too  much,  like  that 
time — remember,  in  the  castle?  And  your  hand  is 
quivering.     But  then  the  game  was  different — " 

"Tss!" 

Khorre  lowers  his  voice: 

"But  your  hand  is  really  in  blood.  Oh,  you  are 
breaking  my  fingers!" 

Haggart  threatens: 

"If  you  don't  keep  still,  dog,  I'll  break  every  bone 
of  your  body!  I'll  pull  every  vein  out  of  your  body, 
if  you  don 't  keep  still,  you  dog ! ' ' 


THE  OCEAN  119 

Silence.  The  distant  breakers  are  softly  groaning, 
as  if  complaining — the  sea  has  gone  far  away  from 
the  black  earth.  And  the  night  is  silent.  It  came 
no  one  knows  whence  and  spread  over  the  earth;  it 
spread  over  the  earth  and  is  silent;  it  is  silent,  wait- 
ing for  something.  And  ferocious  mists  have  swung 
themselves  to  meet  it — the  sea  breathed  phantoms, 
driving  to  the  earth  a  herd  of  headless  submissive 
giants.     A  heavy  fog  is  coming. 

"Why  doesn't  he  light  a  lamp?"  asks  Eliorre 
sternly  but  submissively. 

* '  He  needs  no  light. ' ' 

"Perhaps  there  is  no  one  there  any  longer." 

"Yes,  he's  there." 

"A  fog  is  coming.  How  quiet  it  is!  There's 
something  wrong  in  the  air — what  do  you  think, 
Noni?" 

"Tss!" 

The  first  soft  sounds  of  the  organ  resound.  Some 
one  is  sitting  alone  in  the  dark  and  is  speaking  to 
God  in  an  incomprehensible  language  about  the  most 
important  things.  And  however  faint  the  sounds — ■ 
suddenly  the  silence  vanishes,  the  night  trembles 
and  stares  into  the  dark  church  with  all  its  myriads 
of  phantom  eyes.     An  agitated  voice  whispers: 

"Listen!  He  always  begins  that  way.  He  gets 
a  hold  of  your  soul  at  once !  Where  does  he  get  the 
power  ?     He  gets  a  hold  of  your  heart ! ' ' 

"I  don't  like  it." 

' '  Listen !  Now  he  makes  believe  he  is  Haggart, 
Khorre!     Little  Haggart  in  his  mother's  lap.     Look, 


120  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

all  hands  are  filled  with  golden  rays;  little  Haggart 
is  playing  with  golden  rays.     Look!" 

"I  don't  see  it,  Noni.  Leave  my  hand  alone,  it 
hurts." 

"Now  he  makes  believe  he  is  Haggart!    Listen!" 

The  oppressive  chords  resound  faintly.  Haggart 
moans  softly. 

"What  is  it,  Noni?    Do  you  feel  any  pain?" 

"Yes.    Do  you  understand  of  what  he  speaks?" 

"No." 

"He  speaks  of  the  most  important — of  the  most 
vital,  Khorre — if  we  could  only  understand  it — I  want 
to  understand  it.  Listen,  Khorre,  listen!  Why  does 
he  make  believe  that  he  is  Haggart?  It  is  not  my 
soul.    My  soul  does  not  know  this." 

"What,  Noni?" 

"I  don't  know.  What  terrible  dreams  there  are 
in  this  land !  Listen.  There !  Now  he  will  cry  and 
he  will  say :  *  It  is  Haggart  crying. '  He  will  call  God 
and  will  say:  'Haggart  is  calling,'  He  lies — Hag- 
gart did  not  call,  Haggart  does  not  know  God." 

He  moans  again,  trying  to  restrain  himself. 

"Do  you  feel  any  pain?" 

"Yes— Be  silent." 

Haggart  exclaims  in  a  muffled  voice : 

"Oh,  Khorre!" 

"What  is  it,  Noni?" 

"Why  don't  you  tell  him  that  it  isn't  Haggart? 
It  is  a  lie!"  whispers  Haggart  rapidly.  "He  thinks 
that  he  knows,  but  he  does  not  know  anything.  lie 
is  a  small,  wretched  9]^  man  with  red  e^^es,  like  those 


THE  OCEAN  121 

of  a  rabbit,  and  to-morrow  death  will  mow  him  down. 
Ha  I  He  is  dealing  in  diamonds,  he  throws  them  from 
one  hand  to  the  other  like  an  old  miser,  and  he  him- 
self is  dying  of  hunger.  It  is  a  fraud,  Khorre,  a  fraud. 
Let  us  shout  loudly,  Khorre,  we  are  alone  here." 

He  shouts,  turning  to  the  thundering  organ : 

**Eh,  musician!  Even  a  fly  cannot  rise  on  your 
wings,  even  the  smallest  fly  cannot  rise  on  your  wings. 
Eh,  musician !  Let  me  have  your  torn  hat  and  I  will 
throw  a  penny  into  it;  your  lie  is  worth  no  more. 
What  are  you  prating  there  about  God,  you  rabbit's 
eyes?  Be  silent,  I  am  shamed  to  listen  to  you.  I 
swear,  I  am  ashamed  to  listen  to  you !  Don 't  you  be- 
lieve me?     You  are  still  calling?     Whither?" 

''Strike  them  on  the  head,  Noni." 

"Be  silent,  you  dog!  But  what  a  terrible  land! 
What  are  they  doing  here  with  the  human  heart? 
What  terrible  dreams  there  are  in  this  land?" 

He  stops  speaking.     The  organ  sings  solemnly. 

"Why  did  you  stop  speaking,  Noni?"  asks  the 
sailor  with  alarm. 

"I  am  listening.  It  is  good  music,  Khorre.  Have 
I  said  anything?" 

"You  even  shouted,  Noni,  and  you  forced  me  to 
shout  with  you." 

"That  is  not  true.  I  have  been  silent  all  the  time. 
Do  you  know,  I  haven't  even  opened  my  mouth  once! 
You  must  have  been  dreaming,  Khorre.  Perhaps  you 
are  thinking  that  you  are  near  the  church?  You  are 
simply  sleeping  in  your  bed,  sailor.     It  is  a  dream." 

Khorre  is  terrified. 


122  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"Drink  some  gin,  Noni," 

' '  I  don 't  need  it.    I  drank  something  else  already. '  * 

"Your  hands?" 

"Be  silent,  Khorre.  Don't  you  see  that  everything 
is  silent  and  is  listening,  and  you  alone  are  talking? 
The  musician  may  feel  offended!" 

He  laughs  quietly.  Brass  trumpets  are  roaring 
harmoniously  about  the  triumphant  conciliation  be- 
tween man  and  God.    The  fog  is  growing  thicker. 

A  loud  stamping  of  feet — some  one  runs  through 
the  deserted  street  in  agitation. 

"Noni!"  whispers  the  sailor.     "Who  ran  by?" 

"I  hear." 

"Noni!  Another  one  is  running.  Something  is 
wrong. ' ' 

Frightened  people  are  running  about  in  the  middle 
of  the  night — the  echo  of  the  night  doubles  the  sound 
of  their  footsteps,  increasing  their  terror  tenfold,  and 
it  seems  as  if  the  entire  village,  terror-stricken,  is 
running  away  somewhere.  Rocking,  dancing  silently, 
as  upon  waves,  a  lantern  floats  by. 

"They  have  found  him,  Khorre.  They  have  found 
the  man  I  killed,  sailor!  I  did  not  throw  him  into 
the  sea ;  I  brought  him  and  set  his  head  up  against  the 
door  of  his  house.     They  have  found  him." 

Another  lantern  floats  by,  swinging  from  side  to 
side.  As  if  hearing  the  alarm,  the  organ  breaks  off 
at  a  high  chord.  An  instant  of  silence,  emptiness  of 
dread  waiting,  and  then  a  woman's  sob  of  despair  fills 
it  up  to  the  brim. 

The  mist  is  growing  thicker. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  flame  in  the  oil-lamp  is  dying  out,  having 
a  smell  of  burning.  It  is  near  sunrise.  A 
large,  clean,  fisherman's  hut.  A  skilfully 
made  little  ship  is  fastened  to  the  ceiling,  and  even 
the  sails  are  set.  Involuntarily  this  little  ship  has 
somehow  become  the  centre  of  attraction  and  all  those 
who  speak,  who  are  silent  and  who  listen,  look  at  it, 
study  each  familiar  sail.  Behind  the  dark  curtain  lies 
the  body  of  Philipp — this  hut  belonged  to  him. 

The  people  are  waiting  for  Haggart — some  have 
gone  out  to  search  for  him.  On  the  benches  along 
the  walls,  the  old  fishermen  have  seated  themselves, 
their  hands  folded  on  their  knees ;  some  of  them  seem 
to  be  slumbering;  others  are  smoking  their  pipes. 
They  speak  meditatively  and  cautiously,  as  though 
eager  to  utter  no  unnecessary  words.  Whenever  a  be- 
lated fisherman  comes  in,  he  looks  first  at  the  curtain, 
then  he  silently  squeezes  himself  into  the  crowd,  and 
those  who  have  no  place  on  the  bench  apparently  feel 
embarrassed. 

The  abbot  paces  the  room  heavily,  his  hands  folded 
on  his  back,  his  head  lowered;  when  any  one  is  in 
his  way,  he  quietly  pushes  him  aside  with  his  hand. 
He  is  silent  and  knits  his  brows  convulsively.     Oc- 

123 


IM  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

casionally  he  glances  at  the  door  or  at  the  window 
and  listens. 

The  only  woman  present  there  is  Mariet.  She  is  sit- 
ting by  the  table  and  constantly  watching  her  father 
with  her  burning  eyes.  She  shudders  slightly  at  each 
loud  word,  at  the  sound  of  the  door  as  it  opens,  at 
the  noise  of  distant  footsteps. 

At  night  a  fog  came  from  the  sea  and  covered  the 
earth.  And  such  perfect  quiet  reigns  now  that  long- 
drawn  tolling  is  heard  in  the  distant  lighthouse  of 
the  Holy  Cross.  Warning  is  thus  given  to  the  ships 
that  have  lost  their  way  in  the  fog. 

Some  one  in  the  corner  saj's: 

"Judging  from  the  blow,  it  was  not  one  of  our 
people  that  killed  him.  Our  people  can't  strike  like 
that.  He  stuck  the  knife  here,  then  slashed  over 
there,  and  almost  cut  his  head  off." 

' '  You  can 't  do  that  with  a  dull  knife ! ' ' 

"No.  You  can't  do  it  with  a  weak  hand.  I  saw 
a  murdered  sailor  on  the  wharf  one  day — he  was  cut 
up  just  like  this." 

Silence. 

"And  where  is  his  mother?"  asks  some  one,  nod- 
ding at  the  curtain. 

' '  Selly  is  taking  care  of  her.  Selly  took  her  to  her 
house." 

An  old  fisherman  quietly  asks  his  neighbour: 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Francina  woke  me.     Who  told  you,  Marie?" 

"Some  one  knocked  on  my  window." 

"Who  knocked  on  your  window?" 


THE  OCEAN  126 

"I  don't  know." 

Silence. 

"How  is  it  you  don't  know?  Who  was  the  first 
to  see?" 

' '  Some  one  passed  by  and  noticed  him. ' ' 

''None  of  us  passed  by.  There  was  nobody  among 
us  who  passed  by." 

A  fisherman  seated  at  the  other  end,  says : 

"There  was  nobody  among  us  who  passed  by. 
Tell  us,  Thomas." 

Thomas  takes  out  his  pipe : 

"I  am  a  neighbour  of  Philipp's,  of  that  man 
there — "  he  points  at  the  curtain.  "Yes,  yes,  you  all 
know  that  I  am  his  neighbour.  And  if  anybody  does 
not  know  it — I'll  say  it  again,  as  in  a  court  of  justice : 
I  am  his  neighbour — I  live  right  next  to  him — "  he 
turns  to  the  window. 

An  elderly  fisherman  enters  and  forces  himself 
silently  into  the  line. 

"Well,  Tibo?"  asks  the  abbot,  stopping. 

"Nothing." 

"Haven't  you  found  Haggart?" 

"No.  It  is  so  foggy  that  they  are  afraid  of  losing 
themselves.  They  walk  and  call  each  other;  some  of 
them  hold  each  other  by  the  hand.  Even  a  lantern 
can 't  be  seen  ten  feet  away. ' ' 

The  abbot  lowers  his  head  and  resumes  his  pacing. 
The  old  fisherman  speaks,  without  addressing  any  one 
in  particular. 

"There  are  many  ships  now  staring  helplessly  in 
the  se^." 


126  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"I  walked  like  a  blind  man,"  says  Tibo.  "I  heard 
the  Holy  Cross  ringing.  But  it  seems  as  if  it  changed 
its  place.     The  sound  comes  from  the  left  side." 

''The  fog  is  deceitful." 

Old  Desfoso  says: 

"This  never  happened  here.  Since  Dugamel  broke 
Jack's  head  with  a  shaft.  That  was  thirty — forty 
years  ago." 

"What  did  you  say,  Desfoso?"  the  abbot  stops. 

**I  say,  since  Dugamel  broke  Jack's  head — " 

"Yes,  yes!"  says  the  abbot,  and  resumes  pacing 
the  room. 

"Then  Dugamel  threw  himself  into  the  sea  from 
a  rock  and  was  dashed  to  death — that's  how  it  hap- 
pened.    He  threw  himself  down." 

Mariet  shudders  and  looks  at  the  speaker  with 
hatred.     Silence. 

"What  did  you  say,  Thomas?" 

Thomas  takes  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 

"Nothing.  I  only  said  that  some  one  knocked  at 
my  window." 

"You  don't  know  who?" 

"No.  And  you  will  never  know.  I  came  out,  I 
looked — and  there  Philipp  was  sitting  at  his  door.  I 
wasn't  surprised — Philipp  often  roamed  about  at 
night  ever  since — " 

He  stops  irresolutely.     Mariet  asks  harshly: 

"Since  when?     You  said  'since.'  " 

Silence.     Desfoso  replies  frankly  and  heavily: 

"Since  your  Haggart  came.  Go  ahead,  Thomas, 
tell  us  about  it." 


THE  OCEAN  127 

"So  I  said  to  him:  'Why  did  you  knock,  Philipp? 
Do  you  want  anything  ? '    But  he  was  silent. ' ' 

"And  he  was  silent?" 

* '  He  was  silent.  '  If  you  don 't  want  anything,  you 
had  better  go  to  sleep,  my  friend, '  said  I.  But  he  was 
silent.  Then  I  looked  at  him — ^his  throat  was  cut 
open. ' ' 

Mariet  shudders  and  looks  at  the  speaker  with 
aversion.  Silence.  Another  fisherman  enters,  looks 
at  the  curtain  and  silently  forces  his  way  into  the 
crowd.  Women's  voices  are  heard  behind  the  door; 
the  abbot  stops. 

"Eh,  Lebon!  Chase  the  women  away,"  he  says. 
"Tell  them,  there  is  nothing  for  them  to  do  here." 

Lebon  goes  out. 

"Wait,"  the  abbot  stops.  "Ask  how  the  mother 
is  feeling;  Selly  is  taking  care  of  her." 

Desfoso  says: 

"You  say,  chase  away  the  women,  abbot?  And 
your  daughter?     She  is  here." 

The  abbot  looks  at  Mariet.     She  says: 

"I  am  not  going  away  from  here." 

Silence.  The  abbot  paces  the  room  again ;  he  looks 
at  the  little  ship  fastened  to  the  ceiling  and  asks : 

"Who  made  it?" 

All  look  at  the  little  ship. 

"He,"  answers  Desfoso.  "He  made  it  when  he 
wanted  to  go  to  America  as  a  sailor.  He  was  alwa^^s 
asking  me  how  a  three-masted  brig  is  fitted  out. ' ' 

They  look  at  the  ship  again,  at  its  perfect  little  sails 
— at  the  little  rags.    Lebon  returns. 


128  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

**I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you  about  it,  abbot. 
The  women  say  that  Haggart  and  his  sailor  are  being 
led  over  here.     The  women  are  afraid." 

Mariet  shudders  and  looks  at  the  door;  the  abbot 
pauses. 

**Oho,  it  is  daybreak  already,  the  fog  is  turning 
blue!"  says  one  fisherman  to  another,  but  his  voice 
breaks  off. 

*'Yes.  Low  tide  has  started,"  replies  the  other 
dully. 

Silence.  Then  uneven  footsteps  resound.  Several 
young  fishermen  with  excited  faces  bring  in  Haggart, 
who  is  bound,  and  push  Khorre  in  after  him,  also 
bound.  Haggart  is  calm;  as  soon  as  the  sailor  was 
bound,  something  wildly  free  appeared  in  his  move- 
ments, in  his  manners,  in  the  sharpness  of  his  swift 
glances. 

One  of  the  men  who  brought  Haggart  says  to  the 
abbot  in  a  low  voice: 

"He  was  near  the  church.  Ten  times  we  passed 
by  and  saw  no  one,  until  he  called:  'Aren't  you 
looking  for  me?'     It  is  so  foggy,  father." 

The  abbot  shakes  his  head  silently  and  sits 
down.  Mariet  smiles  to  her  husband  M'ith  her  pale 
lips,  but  he  does  not  look  at  her.  Like  all  the 
others,  he  has  fixed  his  eyes  in  amazement  on  the  toy 
ship. 

"Hello,  Haggart,"  says  the  abbot. 

"Hello,  father." 

"You  call  me  father?" 

"Yes,  you." 


THE  OCEAN  129 

"You  are  mistaken,  Haggart.  I  am  not  your 
father." 

The  fishermen  exchanged  glances  contentedly. 

"Well,  then.  Hello,  abbot,"  says  Haggart  with 
indifference,  and  resumes  examining  the  little  ship. 
Khorre  mutters: 

"That's  the  way,  be  firm,  Noni." 

"Who  made  this  toy?"  asks  Haggart,  but  no  one 
replies. 

"Hello,  Gart!"  says  Mariet,  smiling.  "It  is  I, 
your  wife,  Mariet.     Let  me  untie  your  hands." 

With  a  smile,  pretending  that  she  does  not  no- 
tice the  stains  of  blood,  she  unfastens  the  ropes.  All 
look  at  her  in  silence.  Haggart  also  looks  at  her  bent, 
alarmed  head. 

"Thank  you,"  he  says,  straightening  his  hands. 

"It  would  be  a  good  thing  to  untie  my  hands,  too," 
said  Khorre,  but  there  is  no  answer. 

Abbot — Haggart,  did  you  kill  Philipp? 

Haggart — I. 

Abbot — Do  you  mean  to  say — eh,  you,  Haggart — 
that  j^ou  yourself  killed  him  with  your  own  hands? 
Perhaps  you  said  to  the  sailor:  "Sailor,  go  and  kill 
Philipp,"  and  he  did  it,  for  he  loves  you  and  respects 
you  as  his  superior  ?  Perhaps  it  happened  that  way ! 
Tell  me,  Haggart.     I  called  you  my  son,  Haggart. 

Haggart — No,  I  did  not  order  the  sailor  to  do  it. 
I  killed  Philipp  with  my  own  hand. 

Silence. 

Khorre — Noni!  Tell  them  to  unfasten  my  hands 
and  give  me  back  my  pipe. 


130  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry,"  roars  the  priest.  "Be 
bound  awhile,  drunkard!  You  had  better  be  afraid 
of  an  untied  rope — it  may  be  formed  into  a  noose. '  * 

But  obeying  a  certain  swift  movement  or  glance  of 
Haggart,  Mariet  walks  over  to  the  sailor  and  opens 
the  knots  of  the  rope.  And  again  all  look  in  silence 
upon  her  bent,  alarmed  head.  Then  they  turn  their 
eyes  upon  Haggart.  Just  as  they  looked  at  the  little 
ship  before,  so  they  now  look  at  him.  And  he,  too, 
has  forgotten  about  the  toy.  As  if  aroused  from 
sleep,  he  surveys  the  fishermen,  and  stares  long  at  the 
dark  curtain. 

Abbot — Haggart,  I  am  asking  you.  Who  carried 
Philipp's  body? 

Haggart — I.  I  brought  it  and  put  it  near  the 
door,  his  head  against  the  door,  his  face  against  the 
sea.  It  was  hard  to  set  him  that  way,  he  was  always 
falling  down.     But  I  did  it. 

Abbot — Why  did  you  do  it? 

Haggart — I  don't  know  exactly.  I  heard  that 
Philipp  has  a  mother,  an  old  woman,  and  I  thought 
this  might  please  them  better — both  him  and  his 
mother. 

Abbot — (With  restraint.)  You  are  laughing  at 
us? 

Haggart — No.  What  makes  you  think  I  am 
laughing?  I  am  just  as  serious  as  you  are.  Did  he 
— did  Philipp  make  this  little  ship  ? 

No  one  answers.  oMariet,  rising  and  bending  over 
to  Haggart  acrpss.  the  table,  says : 


THE  OCEAN  181 

"Didn't  you  say  this,  Haggart:  *My  poor  boy,  I 
killed  you  because  I  had  to  kill  you,  and  now  I  am  go- 
ing to  take  you  to  your  mother,  my  dear  boy'?" 

* '  These  are  very  sad  words.  Who  told  them  to  you, 
Mariet?"  asks  Haggart,  surprised. 

"I  heard  them.  And  didn't  you  say  further: 
'Mother,  I  have  brought  you  your  son,  and  put  him 
down  at  your  door — take  your  boy,  mother'?" 

Haggart  maintains  silence. 

"I  don't  know,"  roars  the  abbot  bitterly.  **I 
don't  know;  people  don't  kill  here,  and  we  don't  know 
how  it  is  done.  Perhaps  that  is  as  it  should  be — to 
kill  and  then  bring  the  murdered  man  to  his  mother's 
threshold.    What  are  you  gaping  at,  you  scarecrow  ? ' ' 

Khorre  replies  rudely: 

"According  to  my  opinion,  he  should  have  thrown 
him  into  the  sea.  Your  Haggart  is  out  of  his  mind; 
I  have  said  it  long  ago." 

Suddenly  old  Desfoso  shouts  amid  the  loud  ap- 
proval of  the  others : 

' '  Hold  your  tongue !  We  will  send  him  to  the  city, 
but  we  will  hang  you  like  a  cat  ourselves,  even  if  you 
did  not  kill  him." 

"Silence,,  old  man,  silence!"  the  abbot  .stops  him, 
while  Khorre  looks  over  their  heads  with  silent  con- 
tempt. "Haggart,  I  am  asking  you,  why  did  you 
take  Philipp's  life?  He  needed  his  life  just  as  you 
need  yours." 

"He  was  Mariet 's  betrothed — and — ^^ 

"Well?" 


132  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"And — I  don't  want  to  speak.  Why  didn't  you 
ask  me  before,  when  he  was  alive  ?  Now  I  have  killed 
him." 

**But" — says  the  abbot,  and  there  is  a  note  of  en- 
treaty in  his  heavy  voice.  **But  it  may  be  that  you 
are  already  repenting,  Haggart  ?  You  are  a  splendid 
man,  Gart.  I  know  you;  when  you  are  sober  you 
cannot  hurt  even  a  fly.  Perhaps  you  were  intoxi- 
cated— that  happens  with  young  people — and  Philipp 
may  have  said  something  to  you,  and  you — " 

"No." 

"No?  Well,  then,  let  it  be  no.  Am  I  not  right, 
children?  But  perhaps  something  strange  came  over 
you — it  happens  with  people — suddenly  a  red  mist 
will  get  into  a  man's  head,  the  beast  will  begin  to 
howl  in  his  breast,  and —  In  such  cases  one  word  is 
enough — " 

"No,  Philipp  did  not  say  anything  to  me.  He 
passed  along  the  road,  when  I  jumped  out  from  be- 
hind a  large  rock  and  stuck  a  knife  into  his  throat. 
He  had  no  time  even  to  be  scared.  But  if  you  like — " 
Haggart  surveys  the  fishermen  with  his  eyes  irreso- 
lutely— "I  feel  a  little  sorry  for  him.  That  is,  just  a 
little.     Did  he  make  this  toy  ?  " 

The  abbot  lowers  his  head  sternly.  And  Desfoso 
shouts  again,  amidst  sobs  of  approval  from  the  others : 

"No!  Abbot,  you  better  ask  him  what  he  was  do- 
ing at  the  church.  Dan  saw  them  from  the  window. 
Wouldn't  you  tell  us  what  you  and  your  accursed 
sailor  were  doing  at  the  church  ?  What  were  you  do- 
ing there?    Speak." 


THE  OCEAN  133 

Haggart  looks  at  the  speaker  steadfastly  and  says 
slowly : 

*'I  talked  with  the  devil." 

A  muffled  rumbling  follows.  The  abbot  jumps 
from  his  place  and  roars  furiously: 

' '  Then  let  him  sit  on  your  neck !  Eh,  Pierre,  Jules, 
tie  him  down  as  fast  as  you  can  until  morning.  And 
the  other  one,  too.  And  in  the  morning — in  the 
morning,  take  him  away  to  the  city,  to  the  Judges. 
I  don't  know  their  accursed  city  laws" — cries  the  ab- 
bot in  despair — ^''but  they  will  hang  you,  Haggart! 
You  will  dangle  on  a  rope,  Haggart ! ' ' 

Khorre  rudely  pushes  aside  the  young  fisherman 
who  comes  over  to  him  with  a  rope,  and  says  to  Des- 
f oso  in  a  low  voice : 

"It's  an  important  matter,  old  man.  Go  away  for 
a  minute — ^he  oughtn't  to  hear  it,"  he  nods  at  Hag- 
gart. 

"I  don't  trust  you." 

"You  needn't.  That's  nothing.  Noni,  there  is  a 
little  matter  here.  Come,  come,  and  don't  be  afraid. 
I  have  no  knife." 

The  people  step  aside  and  whisper.  Haggart  is 
silently  waiting  to  be  bound,  but  no  one  comes  over  to 
him.  All  shudder  when  Mariet  suddenly  commences 
to  speak : 

"Perhaps  you  think  that  all  this  is  just,  father? 
Why,  then,  don't  you  ask  me  about  it?  I  am  his 
wife.  Don't  you  believe  that  I  am  his  wife?  Then 
I  will  bring  little  Noni  here.  Do  you  want  me  to 
bring  little  Noni?    He  is  sleeping,  but  I  will  wake 


134  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

him  up.  Once  in  his  life  he  may  wake  up  at  night  in 
order  to  say  that  this  man  whom  you  want  to  hang  in 
the  city  is  his  father." 

"Don't!"  says  Haggart. 

"Very  well,"  replies  Mariet  obediently.  **He  com- 
mands and  I  must  obey — he  is  my  husband.  Let  lit- 
tle Noni  sleep.  But  I  am  not  sleeping,  I  am  here. 
Why,  then,  didn't  you  ask  me:  *  Mariet,  how  was  it 
possible  that  your  husband,  Haggart,  should  kill 
Philipp'?" 

Silence.  Desfoso,  who  has  returned  and  who  is 
agitated,  decides: 

"Let  her  speak.     She  is  his  wife." 

*  *  You  will  not  believe,  Desfoso, ' '  says  Mariet,  turn- 
ing to  the  old  fisherman  with  a  tender  and  mournful 
smile.  "Desfoso,  you  will  not  believe  what  strange 
and  peculiar  creatures  we  women  are!" 

Turning  to  all  the  people  with  the  same  smile,  she 
continues : 

"You  will  not  believe  what  queer  desires,  what 
cunning,  malicious  little  thoughts  we  women  have. 
It  was  I  who  persuaded  my  husband  to  kill  Philipp. 
Yes,  yes — ^he  did  not  want  to  do  it,  but  I  urged 
him;  I  cried  so  much  and  threatened  him,  so  he 
consented.  Men  always  give  in — isn't  that  true,  Des- 
foso?" 

Haggart  looks  at  his  wife  in  a  state  of  great  per- 
plexity', his  eyebrows  brought  close  to  each  other. 
Mariet  continues,  without  looking  at  him,  still  smiling 
as  before : 

"You  will  ask  me,  why  I  wanted  Philipp 's  death? 


THE  OCEAN  1S6 

Yes,  yes,  you  will  ask  this  question,  I  know  it.  He 
never  did  me  any  harm,  that  poor  Philipp,  isn't  that 
true  ?  Then  I  will  tell  you :  He  was  my  betrothed.  I 
don't  know  whether  you  will  be  able  to  understand 
me.  You,  old  Desfoso — you  would  not  kill  the  girl 
you  kissed  one  day  ?  Of  course  not.  But  we  women 
are  such  strange  creatures — you  can't  even  imagine 
what  strange,  suspicious,  peculiar  creatures  we  are. 
Philipp  was  my  betrothed,  and  he  kissed  me — " 

She  wipes  her  mouth  and  continues,  laughing: 

"Here  I  am  wiping  my  mouth  even  now.  You 
have  all  seen  how  I  wiped  my  mouth.  I  am  wiping 
away  Philipp 's  kisses.  You  are  laughing.  But  ask 
your  wife,  Desfoso — does  she  want  the  life  of  the  man 
who  kissed  her  before  you?  Ask  all  women  who 
love — even  the  old  women!  "We  never  grow  old  in 
love.     We  are  born  so,  we  women. ' ' 

Haggart  almost  believes  her.  Advancing  a  step 
forward,  he  asks : 

"You  urged  me?  Perhaps  it  is  true,  Mariet — I 
don't  remember." 

Mariet  laughs. 

"Do  you  hear?  He  has  forgotten.  Go  on,  Gart. 
You  may  say  that  it  was  your  own  idea?  That's  the 
way  you  men  are — you  forget  everything.  Will  you 
say  perhaps  that  I — " 

"Mariet!"    Haggart  interrupts  her  threateningly. 

Mariet,  turning  pale,  looking  sorrowfully  at  his  ter- 
rible eyes  which  are  now  steadfastly  fixed  upon  her, 
continues,  still  smiling: 

"Go  on,   Gart!     Will  you  say  perhaps  that  I — 


136  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Will  you  say  perhaps  that  I  dissuaded  you?  That 
would  be  funny — " 

IIaggakt — No,  I  will  not  say  that.  You  lie,  Ma- 
riet!  Even  I,  Haggart — just  think  of  it,  people — 
even  I  believed  her,  so  cleverly  does  this  woman  lie. 

Mariet — Go — on — Haggart. 

Haggabt — You  are  laughing?  Abbot,  I  don't  want 
to  be  the  husband  of  your  daughter — she  lies. 

Abbot — You  are  worse  than  the  devil,  Qart! 
That's  what  I  say —  You  are  worse  than  the  devil, 
Gart! 

Haggart — You  are  all  foolish  people!  I  don't  un- 
derstand you;  I  don't  know  now  what  to  do  with  you. 
Shall  I  laugh?  Shall  I  be  angry?  Shall  I  cry? 
You  want  to  let  me  go — why,  then,  don't  you  let  me 
go?  You  are  sorry  for  Philipp.  Well,  then,  kill  me 
— I  have  told  you  that  it  was  I  who  killed  the  boy. 
Am  I  disputing?  But  you  are  making  grimaces  like 
monkeys  that  have  found  bananas — or  have  you  such 
a  game  in  your  land?  Then  I  don't  want  to  play  it. 
And  you,  abbot,  you  are  like  a  juggler  in  the  market- 
place. In  one  hand  you  have  truth  and  in  the  other 
hand  you  have  truth,  and  you  are  forever  performing 
tricks.  And  now  she  is  lying — she  lies  so  well  that 
my  heart  contracts  with  belief.  Oh,  she  is  doing  it 
well! 

And  he  laughs  bitterly. 

Mariet — Forgive  me,  Grart. 

Haggart — ^When  I  wanted  to  kill  him,  she  hung  on 
my  hand  like  a  rock,  and  now  she  says  that  she  killed 
him.    She  steals  from  me  this  murder;  she  does  uoj; 


THE  OCEAN  137 

know  that  one  has  to  earn  that,  too!  Oh,  there  are 
queer  people  in  your  land ! 

**I  wanted  to  deceive  them,  not  you,  Gart.  I 
wanted  to  save  you,"  says  Mariet. 

Haggart  replies: 

**My  father  taught  me:  *Eh,  Noni,  beware! 
There  is  one  truth  and  one  law  for  all — for  the  sun, 
for  the  wind,  for  the  waves,  for  the  beasts — and  only 
for  man  there  is  another  truth.  Beware  of  this  truth 
of  man,  Noni!'  so  said  my  father.  Perhaps  this  is 
your  truth?  Then  I  am  not  afraid  of  it,  but  I  feel 
very  sad  and  very  embittered.  Mariet,  if  you  sharp- 
ened my  knife  and  said:  *Go  and  kill  that  man' — it 
may  be  that  I  would  not  have  eared  to  kill  him. 
'What  is  the  use  of  cutting  down  a  withered  tree?' — 
I  would  have  said.  But  now — farewell,  Mariet! 
Well,  bind  me  and  take  me  to  the  city." 

He  waits  haughtily,  but  no  one  approaches  him. 
Mariet  has  lowered  her  head  upon  her  hands,  her 
shoulders  are  twitching.  The  abbot  is  also  absorbed 
in  thought,  his  large  head  lowered.  Desfoso  is  carry- 
ing on  a  heated  conversation  in  whispers  with  the 
fishermen.  Khorre  steps  forward  and  speaks,  glanc- 
ing at  Haggart  askance : 

"I  had  a  little  talk  with  them,  Noni — they  are  all 
right,  they  are  good  fellows,  Noni.  Only  the  priest 
— ^but  he  is  a  good  man,  too — am  I  right,  Noni? 
Don't  look  so  crossly  at  me,  or  I'll  mix  up  the  whole 
thing!  You  see,  kind  people,  it's  this  way:  this  man, 
Haggart,  and  I  have  saved  up  a  little  sum  of  money, 
a  little  barrel  of  gold.    We  don't  need  it,  Noni,  do 


138  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

we?  Perhaps  you  will  take  it  for  yourselves? 
What  do  you  think?  Shall  we  give  tl^£m  the  gold, 
Noni?    You  see,  here  I've  entangled  myself  already." 

He  winks  slyly  at  Mariet,  who  has  now  lifted  her 
head. 

"What  are  you  prating  there,  you  scarecrow?" 
asks  the  abbot. 

Khorre  continues: 

"Here  it  goes,  Noni;  I  am  straightening  it  out  lit- 
tle by  little!  But  where  have  we  buried  it,  the  bar- 
rel? Do  you  remember,  Noni?  I  have  forgotten. 
They  say  it's  from  the  gin,  kind  people;  they  say  that 
one 's  memory  fails  from  too  much  gin.  I  am  a  drunk- 
ard, that's  true.'"' 

"If  you  are  not  inventing — then  you  had  better 
choke  yourself  with  your  gold,  you  dog!"  says  the 
abbot. 

Haggart — Khorre ! 

Khorre — Yes. 

Haggart — To-morrow  you  will  get  a  hundred 
lashes.     Abbot,  order  a  hundred  lashes  for  him ! 

Abbot — With  pleasure,  my  son.    With  pleasure. 

The  movements  of  the  fishermen  are  just  as  slow 
and  languid,  but  there  is  something  new  in  their  in- 
creased puffing  and  pulling  at  their  pipes,  in  the  light 
quiver  of  their  tanned  hands.  Some  of  them  arise 
and  look  out  of  the  window  with  feigned  indifference. 

"The  fog  is  rising!"  says  one,  looking  out  of  the 
window.     "Do  you  hear  what  I  said  about  the  fog?" 

"It's  time  to  go  to  sleep.  I  say,  it's  time  to  go  to 
sleep!" 


THE  OCEAN  139 

Desfoso  comes  forward  and  speaks  cautiously: 

"That  isn't  quite  so,  abbot.  It  seems  you  didn't 
say  exactly  what  you  ought  to  say,  abbot.  They  seem 
to  think  differently.  I  don't  say  anything  for  myself 
— I  am  simply  talking  about  them.  What  do  you  say, 
Thomas?" 

Thomas — ^We  ought  to  go  to  sleep,  I  say.  Isn't  it 
true  that  it  is  time  to  go  to  sleep? 

Mariet  (softly) — Sit  down,  Gart.  You  are  tired 
to-night.     You  don't  answer? 

An  old  fisherman  says : 

**  There  used  to  be  a  custom  in  our  land,  I  heard, 
that  a  murderer  was  to  pay  a  fine  for  the  man  he 
killed.     Have  you  heard  about  it,  Desfoso?" 

Another  voice  is  heard: 

"Philipp  is  dead.  Philipp  is  dead  already,  do  you 
hear,  neighbour?  Who  is  going  to  support  his 
mother?" 

* '  I  haven 't  enough  even  for  my  own !  And  the  fog 
is  rising,  neighbour." 

''Abbot,  did  you  hear  us  say :  'Gart  is  a  bad  man ; 
Gart  is  a  good-for-nothing,  a  city  trickster?'  No,  we 
said :  '  This  thing  has  never  happened  here  before, '  ' ' 
says  Desfoso. 

Then  a  determined  voice  remarks : 

"Gart  is  a  good  man !    Wild  Gart  is  a  good  man !" 

Desfoso — If  you  looked  around,  abbot,  you  couldn't 
find  a  single,  strong  boat  here.  I  haven't  enough  tar 
for  mine.  And  the  church — is  that  the  way  a  good 
church  ought  to  look?  I  am  not  saying  it  myself,  but 
it  comes  out  that  way — it  can't  be  helped,  abbot. 


140  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Haggart  turns  to  Mariet  and  says : 

"Do  you  hear,  woman?" 

*'I  do." 

"Why  don't  you  spit  into  their  faces?" 

"I  can't.  I  love  you,  Haggart.  Are  there  only 
ten  Commandments  of  God?  No,  there  is  still  an- 
other:   'I  love  you,  Haggart.'  " 

"What  sad  dreams  there  are  in  your  land." 

The  abbot  rises  and  walks  over  to  the  fishermen. 

"Well,  what  did  you  say  about  the  church,  old 
man?  You  said  something  interesting  about  the 
church,  or  was  I  mistaken?" 

He  casts  a  swift  glance  at  Mariet  and  Haggart. 

"It  isn't  the  church  alone,  abbot.  There  are  four 
of  us  old  men:  Legran,  Stoffie,  Puasar,  Kornu,  and 
seven  old  women.  Do  I  say  that  we  are  not  going  to 
feed  them?  Of  course,  we  will,  but  don't  be  angry, 
father — it  is  hard!  You  know  it  yourself,  abbot — 
old  age  is  no  fun." 

"I  am  an  old  man,  too!"  begins  old  Rikke,  lisping, 
but  suddenly  he  flings  his  hat  angrily  to  the  ground. 
"Yes,  I  am  an  old  man.  I  don't  want  any  more, 
that's  all!  I  worked,  and  now  I  don't  want  to  work. 
That 's  all !     I  don 't  want  to  work. ' ' 

He  goes  out,  swinging  his  hand.  All  look  sympa- 
thetically at  his  stooping  back,  at  his  white  tufts  of 
hair.  And  then  they  look  again  at  Desfoso,  at  his 
mouth,  from  which  their  words  come  out.  A  voice 
says : 

"There,  Rikke  doesn't  want  to  work  any  more." 

All  laugh  softly  and  forcedly. 


THE  OCEAN  141 

"Suppose  we  send  Gart  to  the  city — what  then?" 
Desfoso  goes  on,  without  looking  at  Haggart.  ''Well, 
the  city  people  will  hang  hiin — and  then  what?  The 
result  will  be  that  a  man  will  be  gone,  a  fisherman 
will  be  gone — you  will  lose  a  son,  and  Mariet  will  lose 
her  husband,  and  the  little  boy  his  father.  Is  there 
any  joy  in  that  ? ' ' 

''That's  right,  that's  right!"  nods  the  abbot,  ap- 
provingly.    ' '  But  what  a  mind  you  have,  Desfoso ! ' ' 

"Do  you  pay  attention  to  them,  Abbot?"  asked 
Haggart. 

"Yes,  I  do,  Haggart.  And  it  wouldn't  do  you  any 
harm  to  pay  attention  to  them.  The  devil  is  prouder 
than  you,  and  yet  he  is  only  the  devil,  and  nothing 
more. ' ' 

Desfoso  affirms: 

"What's  the  use  of  pride?    Pride  isn't  necessary." 

He  turns  to  Haggart,  his  eyes  still  lowered ;  then  he 
lifts  his  eyes  and  asks : 

"Gart!  But  you  don't  need  to  kill  anybody  else. 
Excepting  Philipp,  you  don't  feel  like  killing  any- 
body else,  do  you?" 

"No." 

' '  Only  Philipp,  and  no  more  ?  Do  you  hear  ?  Only 
Philipp,  and  no  more.  And  another  question — Gart, 
don't  you  want  to  send  away  this  man,  Khorre?  We 
would  like  you  to  do  it.  Who  knows  him?  People 
say  that  all  this  trouble  comes  through  him." 

Several  voices  are  heard: 

"Through  him.  Send  him  away,  Gart!  It  will 
be  better  for  him  ! ' ' 


142  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

The  abbot  upholds  them. 

"True!" 

"You,  too,  priiBst!"  says  Khorre,  gruffly.  Haggart 
looks  with  a  faint  smile  at  his  angry,  bristled  face,  and 
says: 

"I  rather  feel  like  sending  him  away.  Let  him 
go." 

"Well,  then,  Abbot,"  says  Desfoso,  turning  around, 
"we  have  decided,  in  accordance  with  our  conscience 
— to  take  the  money.     Do  I  speak  properly  ? ' ' 

One  voice  answers  for  all: 

"Yes." 

Desfoso — Well,  sailor,  where  is  the  money? 

Khorre — Captain  ? 

Haggart — Give  it  to  them. 

Khorre  (rudely) — Then  give  me  back  my  knife 
and  my  pipe  first!  Who  is  the  eldest  among  you — 
you?  Listen,  then:  Take  crowbars  and  shovels  and 
go  to  the  castle.  Do  you  know  the  tower,  the  accursed 
tower  that  fell?     Go  over  there — " 

He  bends  down  and  draws  a  map  on  the  floor  with 
his  crooked  finger.  All  bend  down  and  look  atten- 
tively; only  the  abbot  gazes  sternly  out  of  the  win- 
dow, behind  which  the  heavy  fog  is  still  grey.  Hag- 
gart whispers  in  a  fit  of  rage : 

"Mariet,  it  would  have  been  better  if  you  had  killed 
me  as  I  killed  Philipp.  And  now  my  father  is  call- 
ing me.  Where  will  be  the  end  of  my  sorrow,  Ma- 
riet? Where  the  end  of  the  world  is.  And  where  is 
the  end  of  the  world?  Do  you  want  to  take  my  sor- 
row, Mariet?" 


THE  OCEAN  143 

**I  do,  Haggart." 

"No,  you  are  a  woman." 

"Why  do  you  torture  me,  Gart?  What  have  I  done 
that  you  should  torture  me  so?     I  love  you." 

"You  lied." 

"My  tongue  lied.     I  love  you." 

"A  serpent  has  a  double  tongue,  but  ask  the  ser- 
pent what  it  wants — and  it  will  tell  you  the  truth.  It 
is  your  heart  that  lied.  Was  it  not  you,  girl,  that  I 
met  that  time  on  the  road?  And  you  said:  'Good 
evening,'    How  you  have  deceived  me!" 

Desfoso  asks  loudly: 

"Well,  abbot?  You  are  coming  along  with  us, 
aren't  you,  father.  Otherwise  something  wrong 
might  come  out  of  it.     Do  I  speak  properly?" 

The  abbot  replies  merrily: 

"Of  course,  of  course,  children.  I  am  going  with 
you.  Without  me,  you  will  think  of  the  church.  I 
have  just  been  thinking  of  the  church — of  the  kind  of 
church  you  need.  Oh,  it 's  hard  to  get  along  with  you, 
people ! ' ' 

The  fishermen  go  out  very  slowly — they  are  pur- 
posely lingering. 

"The  sea  is  coming,"  says  one.     "I  can  hear  it." 

"Yes,  yes,  the  sea  is  coming!  Did  you  understand 
what  he  said?" 

The  few  who  remained  are  more  hasty  in  their 
movements.  Some  of  them  politely  bid  Haggart  fare- 
well. 

"Good-bye,  Gart." 

"I  am  thinking,  Haggart,  what  kind  of  a  church 


144.  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

we  need.  This  one  will  not  do,  it  seems.  They 
prayed  here  a  hundred  years ;  now  it  is  no  good,  they 
say.  Well,  then,  it  is  necessary  to  have  a  new  one,  a 
better  one.    But  what  shall  it  be?" 

"  'Pope's  a  rogue,  Pope's  a  rogue.'  But,  then,  I 
am  a  rogue,  too.  Don't  you  think,  Gart,  that  1  am 
also  something  of  a  rogue?  One  moment,  children, 
I  am  with  you." 

There  is  some  crowding  in  the  doorway.  The  abbot 
follows  the  last  man  with  his  eyes  and  roars  angrily: 

"Eh,  you,  Haggart,  murderer!  What  are  you 
smiling  at?  You  have  no  right  to  despise  them  like 
that.  They  are  my  children.  They  have  worked — 
have  you  seen  their  hands,  their  backs?  If  you 
haven't  noticed  that,  j'ou  are  a  fool!  They  are  tired. 
They  want  to  rest.  Let  them  rest,  even  at  the  cost 
of  the  blood  of  the  one  you  killed.  I'll  give  them 
each  a  little,  and  the  rest  I  wiU  throw  out  into  the  sea. 
Do  you  hear,  Haggart?" 

"I  hear,  priest." 

The  abbot  exclaims,  raising  his  arms: 

"0  Lord!  Why  have  you  made  a  heart  that  can 
have  pity  on  both  the  murdered  and  the  murderer! 
Gart,  go  home.  Take  him  home,  Mariet,  and  wash 
his  hands!" 

"To  whom  do  you  lie,  priest?"  asks  Haggart, 
slowly.  "To  God  or  to  the  devil?  To  yourself  or  to 
the  people  ?     Or  to  everybody  ? ' ' 

He  laughs  bitterly. 

"Eh,  Gart!     You  are  drunk  with  blood." 

"And  with  what  are  you  drunk?" 


THE  OCEAN  146 

They  face  each  other.  Mariet  cries  angrily,  plac- 
ing herself  between  them: 

"May  a  thunder  strike  you  down,  both  of  you, 
that's  what  I  am  praying  to  God.  May  a  thunder 
strike  you  down!  What  are  you  doing  with  my 
heart  ?  You  are  tearing  it  with  your  teeth  like  greedy 
dogs.  You  didn't  drink  enough  blood,  Gart,  drink 
mine,  then !  You  will  never  have  enough,  Gart,  isn  't 
that  true?" 

"Now,  now,"  says  the  abbot,  calming  them.  "Take 
him  home,  Mariet.     Go  home,  Gart,  and  sleep  more." 

Mariet  comes  forward,  goes  to  the  door  and  pauses 
there. 

"Gart!     I  am  going  to  little  Noni." 

"Go." 

"Are  you  coming  along  with  me?" 

"Yes— no— later." 

"I  am  going  to  little  Noni.  What  shall  I  tell  him 
about  his  father  when  he  wakes  up  ? " 

Haggart  is  silent.  Khorre  comes  back  and  stops 
irresolutely  at  the  threshold.  IMariet  casts  at  him  a 
glance  full  of  contempt  and  then  goes  out.     Silence. 

"Khorre!" 

"Yes." 

"Gin!" 

' '  Here  it  is,  Noni.  Drink  it,  my  boy,  but  not  all  at 
once,  not  all  at  once,  Noni." 

Haggart  drinks ;  he  examines  the  room  with  a  smile. 

"Nobody.  Did  you  see  him,  Khorre?  He  is  there, 
behind  the  curtain.  Just  think  of  it,  sailor — here  we 
are  again  with  him  alone." 


146  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

**  Go  home,  Noni!" 

"Right  away.     Give  me  some  gin," 

He  drinks. 

'•And  they?     They  have  gone?" 

"They  ran,  Noni.  Go  home,  my  boy!  They  ran 
off  like  goats.     I  was  laughing  so  much,  Noni." 

Both  laugh. 

"Take  down  that  toy,  Khorre.  Yes,  yes,  a  little 
ship.     He  made  it,  Khorre." 

They  examine  the  toy. 

"Look  how  skilfully  the  jib  was  made,  Khorre, 
Good  boy,  Philipp !  But  the  halyards  are  bad,  look. 
No,  Philipp !  You  never  saw  how  real  ships  are  fitted 
out — real  ships  which  rove  over  the  ocean,  tearing 
its  grey  waves.  Was  it  with  this  toy  that  you  wanted 
to  quench  your  little  thirst — fool?" 

He  throws  down  the  little  ship  and  rises: 

"Khorre!    Boatswain!" 

"Yes." 

"Call  them!     I  assume  command  again,  Khorre!" 

The  sailor  turns  pale  and  shouts  enthusiastically: 

"Noni!  Captain!  My  knees  are  trembling.  I 
will  not  be  able  to  reach  them  and  I  will  fall  on  the 
way. ' ' 

' '  You  will  reach  them !  We  must  also  take  our 
money  away  from  these  people — what  do  you  think, 
Khorre?  We  have  played  a  little,  and  now  it  is 
enough — what  do  you  think,  Khorre?" 

He  laughs.  The  sailor  looks  at  him,  his  hands 
folded  as  in  prayer,  and  he  weeps. 


CHAPTER  VII 

*'A    ■    ^  HESE  are  your  comrades,  Haggart?    I  am 

I  so  glad  to  see  them.     You  said,  Gart,  yes 

JL  — you  said  that  their  faces  were  entirely 
different  from  the  faces  of  our  people,  and  that  is 
true.  Oh,  how  true  it  is!  Our  people  have  hand- 
some faces,  too — don't  think  our  fishermen  are  ugly, 
but  they  haven't  these  deep,  terrible  scars.  I  like 
them  very  much,  I  assure  you,  Gart.  I  suppose  you  are 
a  friend  of  Haggart 's — you  have  such  stern,  fine  eyes? 
But  you  are  silent?  Why  are  they  silent,  Haggart; 
did  you  forbid  them  to  speak?  And  why  are  you 
silent  yourself,  Haggart?     Haggart!" 

Illuminated  by  the  light  of  torches,  Haggart  stands 
and  listens  to  the  rapid,  agitated  speech.  The  metal 
of  the  guns  and  the  uniforms  vibrates  and  flashes ; 
the  light  is  also  playing  on  the  faces  of  those  who  have 
surrounded  Haggart  in  a  close  circle — these  are  his 
nearest,  his  friends.  And  in  the  distance  there  is  a 
different  game — there  a  large  ship  is  dancing  silently, 
casting  its  light  upon  the  black  waves,  and  the  black 
water  plays  with  them,  pleating  them  like  a  braid, 
extinguishing  them  and  kindling  them  again. 

A  noisy  conversation  and  the  splashing  of  the 
waters — and  the  dreadful  silence  of  kindred  human 
lips  that  are  sealed. 

147 


148  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"I  am  Kstening  to  you,  Mariet,"  saj's  Haggart  at 
last.  "What  do  you  want,  Mariet?  It  is  impossible 
that  some  one  should  have  offended  you.  I  ordered 
them  not  to  touch  your  house." 

"Oh,  no,  Haggart,  no!  No  one  has  offended  me!" 
exclaimed  JMariet  cheerfully.  "But  don't  you  like 
me  to  hold  little  Noni  in  my  arras?  Then  I  will  put 
him  down  here  among  the  rocks.  Here  he  will  be 
warm  and  comfortable  as  in  his  cradle.  That's 
the  way!  Don't  be  afraid  of  waking  him,  Gart; 
he  sleeps  soundly  and  will  not  hear  anything. 
You  may  shout,  sing,  fire  a  pistol — the  boy  sleeps 
soundly." 

"What  do  you  want,  Mariet?  I  did  not  call  you 
here,  and  I  am  not  pleased  that  you  have  come." 

* '  Of  course,  you  did  not  call  me  here,  Haggart ;  of 
course,  you  didn't.  But  when  the  fire  was  started, 
I  thought :  'Now  it  will  light  the  way  for  me  to  walk. 
Now  I  will  not  stumble.  And  I  went.  Your  friends 
will  not  be  offended,  Haggart,  if  I  will  ask  them  to 
step  aside  for  awhile?  I  have  something  to  tell  you, 
Gart.  Of  course,  I  should  have  done  that  before,  I 
understand,  Gart ;  but  I  only  just  recalled  it  now.  It 
was  so  light  to  walk ! ' ' 

Haggart  says  sternly: 

"Step  aside,  Flerio,  and  you  all — step  aside  with 
him," 

They  all  step  aside. 

"What  is  it  that  you  have  recalled,  Mariet? 
Speak!  I  am  going  away  forever  from  your  mourn- 
ful land,  where  one   dreams  such   painful   dreams, 


THE  OCEAN  149 

where  even  the  rocks  dream  of  sorrow.  And  I  have 
forgotten  everything. ' ' 

Gently  amd  submissively,  seeking  protection  and 
kindness,  the  woman  presses  close  to  his  hand. 

"0,  Haggart!  O,  my  dear  Haggart!  They  are 
not  offended  because  I  asked  them  so  rudely  to  step 
aside,  are  they  ?  O,  my  dear  Haggart !  The  galloons 
of  your  uniform  scratched  my  cheek,  but  it  is  so  pleas- 
ant. Do  you  know,  I  never  liked  it  when  you  wore 
the  clothes  of  our  fishermen — it  was  not  becoming  to 
you,  Haggart.  But  I  am  talking  nonsense,  and  you 
are  getting  angry,  Gart.     Forgive  me!" 

''Don't  kneel.     Get  up." 

"It  was  only  for  a  moment.  Here,  I  got  up.  You 
ask  me  what  I  want  ?  This  is  what  I  want :  Take  me 
with  you,  Haggart!    Me  and  little  Noni,  Haggart!" 

Haggart  retreats. 

"You  say  that,  Mariet?  You  say  that  I  should 
take  you  along?  Perhaps  you  are  laughing,  woman? 
Or  am  I  dreaming  again?" 

"Yes,  I  say  that :  Take  me  with  you.  Is  this  your 
ship  ?  How  large  and  beautiful  it  is,  and  it  has  black 
sails,  I  know  it.  Take  me  on  your  ship,  Haggart. 
I  know,  you  will  say:  *We  have  no  women  on  the 
ship,'  but  I  will  be  the  woman:  I  will  be  your  soul. 
Haggart,  I  will  be  your  song,  your  thoughts,  Haggart ! 
And  if  it  must  be  so,  let  Khorre  give  gin  to  little  Noni 
— he  is  a  strong  boy." 

"Eh,  Mariet?"  says  Haggart  sternly.  "Do  you 
perhaps  want  me  to  believe  you  again?  Eh,  Mariet? 
Don't  tidk  of  that  which  you  do  not  know,  woman. 


150  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Are  the  rocks  perhaps  easting  a  spell  over  me  and 
turning  my  head  ?  Do  you  hear  the  noise,  and  some- 
thing like  voices?  That  is  the  sea,  waiting  for  me. 
Don't  hold  my  soul.    Let  it  go,  Mariet." 

"Don't  speak,  Haggart!  I  know  everything.  It 
was  not  as  though  I  came  along  a  fiery  road,  it  was 
not  as  though  I  saw  blood  to-day.  Be  silent,  Haggart ! 
I  have  seen  something  more  terrible,  Haggart!  Oh, 
if  you  could  only  understand  me !  I  have  seen  cow- 
ardly people  who  ran  without  defending  themselves. 
I  have  seen  clutching,  greedy  fingers,  crooked  like 
those  of  birds,  like  those  of  birds,  Haggart !  And  out 
of  these  fingers,  which  were  forced  open,  gold  was 
taken.  And  suddenly  I  saw  a  man  sobbing.  Think 
of  it,  Haggart !  They  were  taking  gold  from  him,  and 
he  was  sobbing." 

She  laughs  bitterly.  Haggart  advances  a  step 
toward  her  and  puts  his  heavy  hand  upon  her 
shoulder : 

"Yes,  yes,  Mariet.  Speak  on,  girl,  let  the  sea 
wait." 

Mariet  reifioves  his  hand  and  continues: 

"  'No,'  I  thought.  'These  are  not  my  brethren  at 
all!'  I  thought  and  laughed.  And  father  shouted  to 
the  cowards:  'Take  shafts  and  strike  them.'  But 
they  were  running.     Father  is  such  a  splendid  man." 

' '  Father  is  a  splendid  man, ' '  Haggart  affirms  cheer- 
fully. 

"Such  a  splendid  man!  And  then  one  sailor  bent 
down  close  to  Noui — perhaps  he  did  not  want  to  do 
any  harm  to  him,  but  he  bent  down  to  him  too  closely, 


THE  OCEAN  151 

so,  I  fired  at  him  from  your  pistol.  Is  it  nothing  that 
I  fired  at  our  sailor?" 

Haggart  laughs : 

* '  He  had  a  comical  face !    You  killed  him,  Mariet. ' ' 

"No.  I  don't  know  how  to  shoot.  And  it  was  he 
who  told  me  where  you  were.  O  Haggart,  O 
brother!" 

She  sobs,  and  then  she  speaks  angrily  with  a  shade 
of  a  serpentine  hiss  in  her  voice : 

"I  hate  them!  They  were  not  tortured  enough; 
I  would  have  tortured  them  still  more,  still  more.  Oh, 
what  cowardly  rascals  they  are!  Listen,  Haggart,  I 
was  always  afraid  of  your  power — to  me  there  was 
always  something  terrible  and  incomprehensible  in 
your  power.  'Where  is  his  God?'  I  wondered,  and  I 
was  terrified.  Even  this  morning  I  was  afraid,  but 
now  that  this  night  came,  this  terror  has  fled,  and  I 
came  running  to  you  over  the  fiery  road :  I  am  going 
with  you,  Haggart.  Take  me,  Haggart,  I  will  be  the 
soul  of  your  ship ! ' ' 

"I  am  the  soul  of  my  ship,  Mariet.  But  you  will 
be  the  song  of  my  liberated  soul,  Mariet.  You  shall 
be  the  song  of  my  ship,  Mariet !  Do  you  know  where 
we  are  going?  We  are  going  to  look  for  the  end  of 
the  world,  for  unknown  lands,  for  unknown  monsters. 
And  at  night  Father  Ocean  will  sing  to  us,  Mariet ! ' ' 

"Embrace  me,  Haggart.  Ah,  Haggart,  he  is  not 
a  God  who  makes  cowards  of  human  beings.  We  shall 
go  to  look  for  a  new  God." 

Haggart  whispers  stormily: 

**I  lied  when  I  said  that  I  have  forgotten  everything 


152  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

— I  learned  this  in  your  land.  I  love  you,  Mariet,  as 
I  love  fire.  Eh,  Flerio,  comrade ! "  He  shouts  cheer- 
fully: "Eh,  Flerio,  comrade!  Have  you  prepared  a 
salute?" 

"I  have,  Captain.  The  shores  will  tremble  when 
our  cannons  speak." 

"Eh,  Flerio,  comrade!  Don't  gnash  your  teeth, 
without  biting — no  one  will  believe  you.  Did  you  put 
in  cannon  balls — round,  cast-iron,  good  cannon  balls? 
Give  them  wings,  comrade — let  them  fly  like  black- 
birds on  land  and  sea." 

"Yes,  Captain." 

Haggart  laughs: 

"I  love  to  think  how  the  cannon  ball  flies,  Mariet. 
I  love  to  watch  its  invisible  flight.  If  some  one  comes 
in  its  way — let  him!  Fate  itself  strikes  down  like 
that.  What  is  an  aim?  Only  fools  need  an  aim, 
while  the  devil,  closing  his  eyes,  throws  stones — the 
wise  game  is  merrier  this  way.  But  you  are  silent! 
What  are  j'^ou  thinking  of,  Mariet?" 

"I  am  thinking  of  them.  I  am  forever  thinking  of 
them." 

"Are  you  sorry  for  them?"  Haggart  frowns. 

"Yes,  I  am  sorry  for  them.  But  my  pity  is  my 
hatred,  Haggart.  I  hate  them,  and  I  would  kill  them, 
more  and  more!" 

"I  feel  like  flying  faster — my  soul  is  so  free.  Let 
us  jest,  Mariet!  Here  is  a  riddle,  guess  it:  For 
whom  will  the  cannons  roar  soon?  You  think,  for 
me?  No.  For  you?  no,  no,  not  for  you,  Mariet! 
For  little  Noni,  for  him — for  little  Noni  who  is  board- 


THE  OCEAN  158 

ing  the  ship  to-night.  Let  him  wake  up  from  this 
thunder.  How  our  little  Noni  will  be  surprised! 
And  now  be  quiet,  quiet — don't  disturb  his  sleep — 
don 't  spoil  little  Noni 's  awakening. ' ' 

The  sound  of  voices  is  heard — a  crowd  is  approach- 
ing. 

"Where  is  the  captain?" 

* '  Here.     Halt,  the  captain  is  here ! ' ' 

"It's  all  done.  They  can  be  crammed  into  a  basket 
like  herrings." 

"Our  boatswain  is  a  brave  fellow!    A  jolly  man." 

Khorre,  intoxicated  and  jolly,  shouts: 

* '  Not  so  loud,  devils !  Don 't  you  see  that  the  cap- 
tain is  here?  They  scream  like  seagulls  over  a  dead 
dolphin. ' ' 

Mariet  steps  aside  a  little  distance,  where  little  Noni 
is  sleeping. 

Khorre — Here  we  are,  Captain.  No  losses.  Cap- 
tain.   And  how  we  laughed,  Noni. 

Haggart — You  got  drunk  rather  early.  Come  to 
the  point. 

Khorre — Very  well.  The  thing  is  done,  Captain. 
We've  picked  up  all  our  money — not  worse  than  the 
imperial  tax  collectors.  I  could  not  tell  which  was 
ours,  so  I  picked  up  all  the  money.  But  if  they  have 
buried  some  of  the  gold,  forgive  us,  Captain — we  are 
not  peasants  to  plough  the  ground." 

Laughter.     Haggart  also  laughs. 

"Let  them  sow,  we  shall  reap." 

"Golden  words,  Noni.  Eh,  Tommy,  listen  to  what 
the  Captain  is  saying.     And  another  thing:  Whether 


154  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

you  will  be  angry  or  not — I  have  broken  the  music. 
I  have  scattered  it  in  small  pieces.  Show  your  pipe, 
Tetyu!  Do  you  see,  Noni,  I  didn't  do  it  at  once,  no. 
I  told  him  to  play  a  jig,  and  he  said  that  he  couldn't 
do  it.  Then  he  lost  his  mind  and  ran  away.  They 
all  lost  their  minds  there,  Captain.  Eh,  Tommy,  show 
your  beard.  An  old  woman  tore  half  of  his  beard 
out,  Captain — now  he  is  a  disgrace  to  look  upon.  Eh, 
Tommy!  He  has  hidden  himself,  he's  ashamed  to 
show  his  face,  Captain.  And  there's  another  thing: 
The  priest  is  coming  here." 

Mariet  exclaims : 

''Father!" 

Khorre,  astonished,  asks: 

"Are  you  here?  If  she  came  to  complain,  I  must 
report  to  you,  Captain — ^the  priest  almost  killed  one 
of  our  sailors.  And  she,  too.  I  ordered  the  men  to 
bind  the  priest — " 

"Silence." 

"I  don't  understand  your  actions,  Noni — " 

Haggart,  restraining  his  rage,  exclaims : 

* '  I  shall  have  you  put  in  irons !     Silence ! ' ' 

With  ever-growing  rage : 

"You  dare  talk  back  to  me,  riff-raff!     You — " 

Mariet  cautions  him: 

"Gart!     They  have  brought  father  here." 

Several  sailors  bring  in  the  abbot,  bound.  His 
clothes  are  in  disorder,  his  face  is  agitated  and  pale. 
He  looks  at  Mariet  with  some  amazement,  and  lowers 
his  eyes.     Then  he  heaves  a  sigh. 


THE  OCEAN  155 

"Untie  him!"  says  Mariet.  Haggart  corrects  her 
restrainedly : 

"Only  I  command  here,  Mariet.  Khorre,  untie 
him." 

Khorre  unfastens  the  knots.     Silence. 

Abbot — Hello,  Haggart. 

"Hello,  abbot." 

"You  have  arranged  a  fine  night,  Haggart!" 

Haggart  speaks  with  restraint: 

"It  is  unpleasant  for  me  to  see  you.  Why  did  you 
come  here?  Go  home,  priest,  no  one  will  touch  you. 
Keep  on  fishing — and  what  else  were  you  doing? 
Oh,  yes — make  your  own  prayers.  We  are  going  out 
to  the  ocean;  your  daughter,  you  know,  is  also  going 
with  me.  Do  you  see  the  ship?  That  is  mine.  It's 
a  pity  that  you  don't  know  about  ships — you  would 
have  laughed  for  joy  at  the  sight  of  such  a  beautiful 
ship !  Why  is  he  silent,  Mariet  ?  You  had  better  tell 
him." 

Abbot — Prayers?  In  what  language?  Have  you, 
perhaps,  discovered  a  new  language  in  which  prayers 
reach  God?     Oh,  Haggart,  Haggart! 

He  weeps,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands.  Hag- 
gart, alarmed,  asks : 

"You  are  crying,  abbot?" 

"Look,  Gart,  he  is  crying.  Father  never  cried.  I 
am  afraid,  Gart." 

The  abbot  stops  crying.  Heaving  a  deep  sigh,  he 
says: 

"I  don't  know  what  they  call  you:     Haggart  or 


156  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

devil  or  something  else — I  have  come  to  you  with  a 
request.  Do  you  hear,  robber,  with  a  request?  Tell 
your  crew  not  to  gnash  their  teeth  like  that — I  don't 
like  it." 

Haggart  replies  morosely : 

"Go  hopie,  priest!     Mariet  will  stay  with  me." 

*'Let  her  stay  with  you.  I  don't  need  her,  and  if 
you  need  her,  take  her.     Take  her,  Haggart.     But — " 

He  kneels  before  him.  A  murmur  of  astonishment. 
Mariet,  frightened,  advances  a  step  to  her  father. 

"Father!     You  are  kneeling?" 

Abbot — Robber!  Give  us  back  the  money.  You 
will  rob  more  for  yourself,  but  give  this  money  to  us. 
You  are  young  yet,  you  will  rob  some  more  yet — 

Haggart — You  are  insane!  There's  a  man — he 
will  drive  the  devil  himself  to  despair !  Listen,  priest, 
I  am  shouting  to  you:  You  have  simply  lost  your 
mind! 

The  abbot,  still  kneeling,  continues: 

"Perhaps,  I  have — by  God,  I  don't  know.  Robber, 
dearest,  what  is  this  to  you?  Give  us  this  money.  I 
feel  sorry  for  them,  for  the  scoundrels!  They  re- 
joiced so  much,  the  scoundrels.  They  blossomed  forth 
like  an  old  blackthorn  which  has  nothing  but  thorns 
and  a  ragged  bark.  They  are  sinners.  But  am  I  im- 
ploring God  for  their  sake?  I  am  imploring  you. 
Robber,  dearest — " 

Mariet  looks  now  at  Haggart,  now  at  the  priest. 
Haggart  is  hesitating.  The  abbot  keeps  mutter- 
ing: 

"Robber,  do  you  want  me  to  call  you  son?    Well, 


THE  OCEAN  167 

then — son — it  makes  no  difference  now — I  will  never 
see  you  again.  It's  all  the  same!  Like  an  old  black- 
thorn, they  bloomed — oh,  Lord,  those  scoundrels,  those 
old  scoundrels!" 

"No,"  Haggart  replied  sternly. 

*'Then  you  are  the  devil,  that's  who  you  are.  You 
are  the  devil, ' '  mutters  the  abbot,  rising  heavily  from 
the  ground,     Haggart  shows  his  teeth,  enraged. 

**Do  you  wish  to  sell  your  soul  to  the  devil?  Yes? 
Eh,  abbot — don't  you  know  yet  that  the  devil  always 
pays  with  spurious  money?  Let  me  have  a  torch, 
sailor ! ' ' 

He  seizes  a  torch  and  lifts  it  high  over  his  head — 
he  covers  his  terrible  face  with  fire  and  smoke. 

"Look,  here  I  am!  Do  you  see?  Now  ask  me,  if 
you  dare!" 

He  flings  the  torch  away.  What  does  the  abbot 
dream  in  this  land  full  of  monstrous  dreams?  Ter- 
rified, his  heavy  frame  trembling,  helplessly  push- 
ing the  people  aside  with  his  hands,  he  retreats.  He 
turns  around.  Now  he  sees  the  glitter  of  the  metal, 
the  dark  and  terrible  faces ;  he  hears  the  angry  splash- 
ing of  the  waters — and  he  covers  his  head  with  his 
hands  and  walks  off  quickly.  Then  Khorre  jumps  up 
and  strikes  him  with  a  knife  in  his  back. 

"Why  have  you  done  it?" — the  abbot  clutches  the 
hand  that  struck  him  down. 

* '  Just  so — for  nothing ! ' ' 

The  abbot  falls  to  the  ground  and  dies. 

"Why  have  you  done  it?"  cries  Mariet. 

"Why  have. you  done  it?"  roars  Haggart. 


158  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

And  a  strange  voice,  coming  from  some  unknown 
depths,  answers  with  Khorre's  lips: 

**You  commanded  me  to  do  it." 

Haggart  looks  around  and  sees  the  stern,  dark  faces, 
the  quivering  glitter  of  the  metal,  the  motionless  body ; 
he  hears  the  mysterious,  merry  dashing  of  the  waves. 
And  he  clasps  his  head  in  a  fit  of  terror. 

' '  Who  commanded  ?  It  was  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 
I  did  not  want  to  kill  him — no,  no!" 

Sombre  voices  answer: 

"You  commanded.  We  heard  it.  You  com- 
manded." 

Haggart  listens,  his  head  thrown  back.  Suddenly 
he  bursts  into  loud  laughter: 

"Oh,  devils,  devils!  Do  you  think  that  I  have  two 
ears  in  order  that  you  may  lie  in  each  one  ?  Go  down 
on  your  knees,  rascal!" 

He  hurls  Khorre  to  the  ground. 

* '  String  him  up  with  a  rope !  I  would  have  crushed 
your  venomous  head  myself — but  let  them  do  it.  Oh, 
devils,  devils !     String  him  up  with  a  rope. ' ' 

Khorre  whines  harshly : 

"Me,  Captain!     I  was  your  nurse,  Noni." 

"Silence!     Kascal!" 

"I?  Noni!  Your  nurse?  You  squealed  like  a  lit- 
tle pig  in  the  cook's  room.  Have  you  forgotten  it, 
Noni  ? ' '  mutters  the  sailor  plaintively. 

"Eh,"  shouts  Haggart  to  the  stern  crowd.  "Take 
him!" 

Several  men  advance  to  him.     Khorre  rises. 

"If  you  do  it  to  me,  to  your  own  nurse — then  you 


THE  OCEAN  159 

have  recovered,  Noni!  Eh,  obey  the  captain!  Take 
me!  I'll  make  you  cry  enough.  Tommy!  You  are 
always  the  mischief-maker!" 

Grim  laughter.  Several  sailors  surround  Khorre  as 
Haggart  watches  them  sternly.    A  dissatisfied  voice  says : 

' '  There  is  no  place  where  to  hang  him  here.  There 
isn't  a  single  tree  around." 

"Let  us  wait  till  we  get  aboard  ship!  Let  him  die 
honestly  on  the  mast. ' ' 

**I  know  of  a  tree  around  here,  but  I  won't  tell 
you, ' '  roars  Khorre  hoarsely.  * '  Look  for  it  yourself ! 
Well,  you  have  astonished  me,  Noni.  How  you 
shouted,  'String  him  up  with  a  rope!'  Exactly  like 
your  father — he  almost  hanged  me,  too.  Good-bye, 
Noni,  now  I  understand  your  actions.  Eh,  gin!  and 
then — on  the  rope!" 

Khorre  goes  off.  No  one  dares  approach  Haggart; 
still  enraged,  he  paces  back  and  forth  with  long 
strides.  He  pauses,  glances  at  the  body  and  paces 
again.     Then  he  calls : 

'  *  Flerio !  Did  you  hear  me  give  orders  to  kill  this 
man?" 

"No,  Captain." 

"You  may  go." 

He  paces  back  and  forth  again,  and  then  calls : 

"Flerio!    Have  you  ever  heard  the  sea  lying?" 

"No." 

' '  If  they  can 't  find  a  tree,  order  them  to  choke  him 
with  their  hands." 

He  paces  back  and  forth  again.  Mariet  is  laugh- 
ing quietly. 


160  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"Who  is  laughing?"  asks  Haggart  in  fury. 

'  *  I, "  answers  Mariet.  * '  I  am  thinking  of  how  they 
iare  hanging  him  and  I  am  laughing.  0,  Haggart,  O, 
my  noble  Haggart !  Your  wrath  is  the  wrath  of  God, 
do  you  know  it  ?  No.  You  are  strange,  you  are  dear, 
you  are  terrible,  Haggart,  but  I  am  not  afraid  of  you. 
Give  me  your  hand,  Haggart,  press  it  firmly,  firmly. 
Here  is  a  powerful  hand!" 

''Flerio,  my  friend,  did  you  hear  what  he  said? 
He  says  the  sea  never  lies." 

"You  are  powerful  and  you  are  just — I  was  insane 
when  I  feared  your  power,  Gart.  May  I  shout  to  the 
sea:  'Haggart,  the  Just'?" 

"That  is  not  true.  Be  silent,  Mariet,  you  are  in- 
toxicated with  blood.     I  don't  know  what  justice  is." 

"Who,  then,  knows  it?  You,  you,  Haggart!  You 
are  God's  justice,  Haggart,  Is  it  true  that  he  was 
your  nurse  ?  Oh,  I  know  what  it  means  to  be  a  nurse ; 
a  nurse  feeds  you,  teaches  you  to  walk — you  love  a 
nurse  as  your  mother.  Isn  't  that  true,  Gart — you  love 
a  nurse  as  a  mother?  And  yet — 'string  him  up  with 
a  rope,  Khorre  I ' ' 

She  laughs  quietly. 

A  loud,  ringing  laughter  resounds  from  the  side 
where  Khorre  was  led  away.  Haggart  stops,  per- 
plexed, 

"What  is  it?" 

"The  devil  is  meeting  his  soul  there,"  says  Mariet. 

* '  No.     Let  go  of  my  hand !     Eh,  who 's  there  ? ' ' 

A  crowd  is  coming.  They  are  laughing  and  grin- 
ning, showing  their  teeth.    But  noticing  the   cap- 


THE  OCEAN  161 

tain,  they  become  serious.  The  people  are  repeating 
one  and  the  same  name : 

' '  Khorre !    Khorre !     Khorre ! ' ' 

And  then  Khorre  himself  appears,  dishevelled, 
crushed,  but  happy — the  rope  has  broken.  Knitting 
his  brow,  Haggart  is  waiting  in  silence. 

"The  rope  broke,  Noni,"  mutters  Khorre  hoarsely, 
modestly,  yet  with  dignity.  ' '  Here  are  the  ends ! 
Eh,  you  there,  keep'quiet!  There  is  nothing  to  laugh 
at — they  started  to  hang  me,  and  the  rope  broke, 
Noni." 

Haggart  looks  at  his  old,  drunken,  frightened,  and 
happy  face,  and  he  laughs  like  a  madman.  And  the 
sailors  respond  with  roaring  laughter.  The  reflected 
lights  are  dancing  more  merrily  upon  the  waves — as 
if  they  are  also  laughing  with  the  people. 

"Just  look  at  him,  Mariet,  what  a  face  he  has," 
Haggart  is  almost  choking  with  laughter.  "Are  you 
happy?  Speak — are  you  happy?  Look,  Mariet, 
what  a  happy  face  he  has !  The  rope  broke — that 's 
very  strong — it  is  stronger  even  than  what  I  said : 
'String  him  up  with  a  rope.'  Who  said  it?  Don't 
you  know,  Khorre?  You  are  out  of  your  wits,  and 
you  don't  know  anything — well,  never  mind,  you 
needn  't  know.  Eh,  give  him  gin !  I  am  glad,  very 
glad  that  you  are  not  altogether  through  with  your 
gin.    Drink,  Khorre!" 

Voices  shout: 

"Gin!" 

"Eh,  the  boatswain  wants  a  drink!     Gin!" 

Khorre  drinks  it  with  dignity,  amid  laughter  and 


162  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

shouts  of  approval.  Suddenly  all  the  noise  dies  down 
and  a  sombre  silence  reigns — a  woman 's  strange  voice 
drowns  the  noise — so  strange  and  unfamiliar,  as  if  it 
were  not  Mariet  's  voice  at  all,  but  another  voice  speak- 
ing with  her  lips : 

"Haggart!    You  have  pardoned  him,  Haggart?" 

Some  of  the  people  look  at  the  body ;  those  standing 
near  it  step  aside.     Haggart  asks,  surprised: 

"Whose  voice  is  that?  Is  that  yours,  Mariet? 
How  strange !     I  did  not  recognise  your  voice. ' ' 

"You  have  pardoned  him,  Haggart?" 

"You  have  heard— the  rope  broke — " 

"Tell  me,  did  you  pardon  the  murderer?  I  want 
to  hear  your  voice,  Haggart." 

A  threatening  voice  is  heard  from  among  the  crowd : 

' '  The  rope  broke.  Who  is  talking  there  ?  The  rope 
broke." 

"Silence!"  exclaims  Haggart,  but  there  is  no  longer 
the  same  commanding  tone  in  his  voice.  "Take  them 
all  away !  Boatswain !  Whistle  for  everybody  to  go 
aboard.  The  time  is  up!  Flerio!  Get  the  boats 
ready. ' ' 

"Yes,  yes." 

Khorre  whistles.  The  sailors  disperse  unwillingly, 
and  the  same  threatening  voice  sounds  somewhere  from 
the  darkness: 

"I  thought  at  first  it  was  the  dead  man  Avho  started 
to  speak.  But  I  would  have  answered  him  too :  'Lie 
there!     The  rope  broke. '  " 

Another  voice  replies : 


THE  OCEAN  163 

"Don't  grumble.  Khorre  has  stronger  defenders 
than  you  are." 

''What  are  you  prating  about,  devils?"  says 
Khorre.  "Silence!  Is  that  you,  Tommy?  I  know 
you,  you  are  always  the  mischief-maker — " 

*'Come  on,  Mariet!"  says  Haggart.  "Give  me  lit- 
tle Noni,  I  want  to  carry  him  to  the  boat  myself. 
Come  on,  Mariet." 

"Where,  Haggart?" 

"Eh,  Mariet!  The  dreams  are  ended.  I  don't  like 
your  voice,  woman — when  did  you  find  time  to  change 
it  ?  What  a  land  of  jugglers !  I  have  never  seen  such 
a  land  before ! ' ' 

"Eh,  Haggart!  The  dreams  are  ended.  I  don't 
like  your  voice,  either — ^little  Haggart!  But  it  may 
be  that  I  am  still  sleeping — then  wake  me.  Haggart, 
swear  that  it  was  you  who  said  it :  *  The  rope  broke. ' 
Swear  that  my  eyes  have  not  grown  blind  and  that 
they  see  Khorre  alive.  Swear  that  this  is  your  hand, 
Haggart ! ' ' 

Silence.  The  voice  of  the  sea  is  growing  louder — 
there  is  the  splash  and  the  call  and  the  promise  of  a 
stern  caress. 

"I  swear." 

Silence.    Khorre  and  Flerio  come  up  to  Haggart. 

"All's  ready,  Captain,"  says  Flerio. 

"The}''  are  waiting,  Noni.  Go  quicker !  They  want 
to  feast  to-night,  Noni!  But  I  must  tell  you,  Noni, 
that  they—" 

Haggart — Did  you  say  something,   Flerio?    Yes, 


164  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

yes,  everything  is  ready.  I  am  coming.  I  think  I 
am  not  quite  through  yet  with  land.  This  is  such  a 
remarkable  land,  Flerio;  the  dreams  here  drive  their 
claws  into  a  man  like  thorns,  and  they  hold  him.  One 
has  to  tear  his  clothing,  and  perhaps  his  body  as  well. 
What  did  you  say,  Mariet? 

Maeiet — Don't  you  want  to  kiss  little  Noni?  You 
shall  never  kiss  him  again. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to." 

Silence. 

"You  will  go  alone." 

"Yes,  I  will  go  alone." 

"Did  you  ever  cry,  Haggart?" 

"No." 

"Who  is  crying  now?  I  hear  some  one  crying  bit- 
terly." 

' '  That  is  not  true — it  is  the  roaring  of  the  sea. ' ' 

"Oh,  Haggart!  Of  what  great  sorrow  does  that 
voice  speak?" 

"Be  silent,  Mariet.     It  is  the  roaring  of  the  sea." 

Silence. 

"Is  everything  ended  now,  Haggart?" 

"Everything  is  ended,  Mariet." 

Mariet,  imploring,  says: 

'  *  Gart !  Only  one  motion  of  the  hand !  Right 
here — against  the  heart — Gart!" 

"No.    Leave  me  alone." 

"Only  one  motion  of  the  hand!  Here  is  your 
knife.  Have  pity  on  me,  kill  me  with  your  hand. 
Only  one  motion  of  j'our  hand,  Gart!" 

"Let  go.     Give  me  my  knife." 


THE  OCEAN  165 

"Gart,  I  bless  you!  One  motion  of  your  hand, 
Gart!" 

Haggart  tears  himself  away,  pushing  the  woman 
aside : 

"No!  Don't  you  know  that  it  is  just  as  hard  to 
make  one  motion  of  the  hand  as  it  is  for  the  sun  to 
come  down  from  the  sky?     Good-bye,  Mariet!" 

* '  You  are  going  away  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  am  going  away.  I  am  going  away,  Mariet. 
That's  how  it  sounds." 

"I  shall  curse  you,  Haggart.  Do  you  know!  I 
shall  curse  you,  Haggart.  And  little  Noni  will  curse 
you,  Haggart — Haggart ! ' ' 

Haggart  exclaims  cheerfully  and  harshly: 

"Eh,  Khorre.  You,  Flerio,  my  old  friend.  Come 
here,  give  me  your  hand — Oh,  what  a  powerful  hand 
it  is!  "Why  do  you  pull  me  by  the  sleeve,  Khorre? 
You  have  such  a  funny  face.  I  can  almost  see  how 
the  rope  snapped,  and  you  came  down  like  a  sack. 
Flerio,  old  friend,  I  feel  like  saying  something  funny, 
but  I  have  forgotten  how  to  say  it.  How  do  they  say 
it  1    Remind  me,  Flerio.    What  do  you  want,  sailor  ? ' ' 

Khorre  whispers  to  him  hoarsely: 

"Noni,  be  on  your  guard.  The  rope  broke  because 
they  used  a  rotten  rope  intentionally.  They  are  be- 
traying you !  Be  on  your  guard,  Noni.  Strike  them 
on  the  head,  Noni. ' ' 

Haggart  bursts  out  laughing. 

"Now  you  have  said  something  funny.  And  I? 
Listen,  Flerio,  old  friend.  This  woman  who  stands 
and  looks — No,  that  will  not  be  funny ! ' ' 


166  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

He  advances  a  step. 

"Khorre,  do  you  remember  how  well  this  man 
prayed?  Why  was  he  killed?  He  prayed  so  well. 
But  there  is  one  prayer  he  did  not  know — this  one — 
*  To  you  I  bring  my  great  eternal  sorrow ;  I  am  going 
to  you,  Father  Ocean!'  " 

And  a  distant  voice,  sad  and  grave,  replies: 

"Oh,  Haggart,  my  dear  Haggart." 

But  who  knows — perhaps  it  was  the  roaring  of  the 
waves.  Many  sad  and  strange  dreams  come  to  man 
on  earth. 

"All  aboard!"  exclaims  Haggart  cheerily,  and 
goes  off  without  looking  around.  Below,  a  gay  noise 
of  voices  and  laughter  resounds.  The  cobblestones  are 
rattling  under  the  firm  footsteps — Haggart  is  going 
away. 

"Haggart!" 

He  goes,  without  turning  around. 

"Haggart!" 

He  has  gone  away. 

Loud  shouting  is  heard — the  sailors  are  greeting 
Haggart.  They  drink  and  go  off  into  the  darkness. 
On  the  shore,  the  torches  which  were  cast  aside  are 
burning  low,  illumining  the  body,  and  a  woman  is 
rushing  about.  She  runs  swiftly  from  one  spot  to  an- 
other, bending  down  over  the  steep  rocks.  Insane  Dan 
comes  crawling  out. 

* '  Is  that  you,  Dan  ?  Do  you  hear,  they  are  singing, 
Dan?     Haggart  has  gone  away." 

"I  was  waiting  for  them  to  go.     Here  is  another 


THE  OCEAN  167 

one.  I  am  gathering  the  pipes  of  my  organ.  Here 
is  another  one." 

"Be  accursed,  Dan  I" 

"Oho?     And  you,  too,  Mariet,  be  accursed!" 

Mariet  clasps  the  child  in  her  arms  and  lifts  him 
high.     Then  she  calls  wildly : 

"Haggart,  turn  around!  Turn  around,  Haggart! 
Noni  is  calling  you.  He  wants  to  curse  you,  Haggart. 
Turn  around !  Look,  Noni,  look — that  is  your  father. 
Remember  him,  Noni.  And  when  you  grow  up,  go 
out  on  every  sea  and  find  him,  Noni.  And  when  you 
find  him — hang  your  father  high  on  a  mast,  my  little 
one." 

The  thundering  salute  drowns  her  cry.  Haggart 
has  boarded  his  ship.  The  night  grows  darker  and 
the  dashing  of  the  waves  fainter — the  ocean  is  moving 
away  with  the  tide.  The  great  desert  of  the  sky  is 
mute  and  the  night  grows  darker  and  the  dashing  of 
the  waves  ever  fainter. 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS 

CHAPTER  I 

JESUS  CHRIST  had  often  been  warned  that 
Judas  Iscariot  was  a  man  of  very  evil  repute, 
and  that  He  ought  to  beware  of  him.  Some  of 
the  disciples,  who  had  been  in  Judaea,  knew  him  well, 
while  others  had  heard  much  about  him  from  various 
sources,  and  there  was  none  who  had  a  good  word  for 
him.  If  good  people  in  speaking  of  him  blamed  him, 
as  covetous,  cunning,  and  inclined  to  hypocrisy  and 
lying,  the  bad,  when  asked  concerning  him,  inveighed 
against  him  in  the  severest  terms. 

"He  is  always  making  mischief  among  us,"  they 
would  say,  and  spit  in  contempt.  "He  always  has 
some  thought  wlwch  he  keeps  to  himself.  He  creeps 
into  a  house  quietly,  like  a  scorpion,  but  goes  out  again 
with  an  ostentatious  noise.  There  are  friends  among 
thieves,  and  comrades  among  robbers,  and  even  liars 
have  wives,  to  whom  they  speak  the  truth ;  but  Judas 
laughs  at  thieves  and  honest  folk  alike,  although  he  is 
himself  a  clever  thief.  Moreover,  he  is  in  appearance 
the  ugliest  person  in  Jndtpa.  No !  he  is  no  friend  of 
ours,  this  foxy-haired  Judas  Iscariot,"  the  bad  would 
say,  thereby  surprising  the  good  people,  in  whose 
opinion  there  was  not  much  difference  between  him 
and  all  other  vicious  people  in  Judtea.     They  would 

168 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       169 

recount  further  that  he  had  long  ago  deserted  his 
wife,  who  was  living  in  poverty  and  misery,  striv- 
ing to  eke  out  a  living  from  the  unfruitful  patch  of 
land  which  constituted  his  estate.  He  had  wan- 
dered for  many  years  aimlessly  among  the  people,  and 
had  even  gone  from  one  sea  to  the  other, — no  mean 
distance, — and  everywhere  he  lied  and  grimaced, 
and  would  make  some  discovery  with  his  thievish  eye, 
and  then  suddenly  disappear,  leaving  behind  him  ani- 
mosity and  strife.  Yes,  he  was  as  inquisitive,  artful 
and  hateful  as  a  one-eyed  demon.  Children  he  had 
none,  and  this  was  an  additional  proof  that  Judas 
was  a  wicked  man,  that  God  would  not  have  from  him 
any  posterity. 

None  of  the  disciples  had  noticed  when  it  was  that 
this  ugly,  foxy-haired  Jew  first  appeared  in  the  com- 
pany of  Christ:  but  he  had  for  a  long  time  haunted 
their  path,  joined  in  their  conversations,  performed 
little  acts  of  service,  bowing  and  smiling  and  currying 
favour.  Sometimes  they  became  quite  used  to  him, 
so  that  he  escaped  their  weary  eyes;  then  again  he 
would  suddenly  obtrude  himself  on  eye  and  ear,  irri- 
tating them  as  something  abnormally  ugly,  treacher- 
ous and  disgusting.  They  would  drive  him  away  with 
harsh  words,  and  for  a  short  time  he  would  disappear, 
only  to  reappear  suddenly,  officious,  flattering  and 
crafty  as  a  one-eyed  demon. 

There  was  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  some  of  the 
disciples  that  under  his  desire  to  draw  near  to  Jesus 
was  hidden  some  secret  intention — ^some  malign  and 
cunning  scheme. 


170  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

But  Jesus  did  not  listen  to  their  advice ;  their  pro- 
phetic voice  did  not  reach  His  ears.  In  that  spirit 
of  serene  contradiction,  which  ever  irresistibly  in- 
clined Him  to  the  reprobate  and  unlovable,  He  delib- 
erately accepted  Judas,  and  included  him  in  the  circle 
of  the  chosen.  The  disciples  were  disturbed  and  mur- 
mured under  their  breath,  but  He  would  sit  still,  with 
His  face  towards  the  setting  sun,  and  listen  abstract- 
edly, perhaps  to  them,  perhaps  to  something  else. 
For  ten  days  there  had  been  no  wind,  and  the  trans- 
parent atmosphere,  wary  and  sensitive,  continued 
ever  the  same,  motionless  and  unchanged.  It  seemed 
as  though  it  preserved  in  its  transparent  depths  every 
cry  and  song  made  during  those  daj^s  by  men  and 
beasts  and  birds — tears,  laments  and  cheerful  song, 
prayers  and  curses — and  that  on  account  of  these 
crystallised  sounds  the  air  was  so  heavy,  threatening, 
and  saturated  with  invisible  life.  Once  more  the  sun 
was  sinking.  It  rolled  heavily  downwards  in  a  flam- 
ing ball,  setting  the  sky  on  fire.  Everything  upon 
the  earth  which  was  turned  towards  it:  the  swarthy 
face  of  Jesus,  the  walls  of  the  houses,  and  the  leaves 
of  the  trees — everything  obediently  reflected  that  dis- 
tant, fearfully  pensive  light.  Now  the  white  walls 
were  no  longer  white,  and  the  white  city  upon  the 
white  hill  was  turned  to  red. 

And  lo!  Judas  arrived.  He  arrived  bowing  low, 
bending  his  back,  cautiously  and  timidly  protruding 
his  ugly,  l)umpy  head — just  exactly  as  his  acquaint- 
ances had  described.  He  was  spare  and  of  good 
height,  almost  the  same  as  that  of  Jesus,  who  stooped 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      171 

a  little  through  the  habit  of  thinking  as  He  walked, 
and  so  appeared  shorter  than  He  was.  Judas  was 
to  all  appearances  fairly  strong  and  well  knit,  though 
for  some  reason  or  other  he  pretended  to  be  weak  and 
somewhat  sickly.  He  had  an  uncertain  voice.  Some- 
times it  was  strong  and  manly,  then  again  shrill  as  that 
of  an  old  woman  scolding  her  husband,  provokingly 
thin,  and  disagreeable  to  the  ear,  so  that  ofttimes  one 
felt  inclined  to  tear  out  his  words  from  the  ear,  like 
rough,  decaying  splinters.  His  short  red  locks  failed 
to  hide  the  curious  form  of  his  skull.  It  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  split  at  the  nape  of  the  neck  by  a 
double  sword-cut,  and  then  joined  together  again, 
so  that  it  was  apparently  divided  into  four  parts,  and 
inspired  distrust,  nay,  even  alarm:  for  behind  such 
a  cranium  there  could  be  no  quiet  or  concord,  but  there 
must  ever  be  heard  the  noise  of  sanguinary  and  merci- 
less strife.  The  face  of  Judas  was  similarly  doubled. 
One  side  of  it,  with  a  black,  sharply  watchful  eye,  was 
vivid  and  mobile,  readily  gathering  into  innumerable 
tortuous  wrinkles.  On  the  other  side  were  no 
wrinkles.  It  was  deadly  flat,  smooth,  and  set,  and 
though  of  the  same  size  as  the  other,  it  seemed  enormous 
on  account  of  its  wide-open  blind  eye.  Covered  with 
a  whitish  film,  closing  neither  night  nor  day,  this  eye 
met  light  and  darkness  with  the  same  indifference,  but 
perhaps  on  account  of  the  proximity  of  its  lively  and 
crafty  companion  it  never  got  full  credit  for  blindness. 
Wlien  in  a  paroxysm  of  joy  or  excitement,  Judas 
would  close  his  sound  eye  and  shake  his  head.  The 
other  eye  would  always  shake  in  unison  and  gaze  in 


172  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

silence.  Even  people  quite  devoid  of  penetration 
could  clearly  perceive,  when  looking  at  Judas,  that 
such  a  man  could  bring  no  good.  .  .  . 

And  yet  Jesus  brought  him  near  to  Himself,  and 
once  even  made  him  sit  next  to  Him.  John,  the  be- 
loved disciple,  fastidiously  moved  away,  and  all  the 
others  who  loved  their  Teacher  cast  down  their  eyes 
in  disapprobation.  But  Judas  sat  on,  and  turning 
his  head  from  side  to  side,  began  in  a  somewhat  thin 
voice  to  complain  of  ill-health,  and  said  that  his  chest 
gave  him  pain  in  the  night,  and  that  when  ascending 
a  hill  he  got  out  of  breath,  and  when  he  stood  still  on 
the  edge  of  a  precipice  he  would  be  seized  with  a  dizzi- 
ness, and  could  scarcely  restrain  a  foolish  desire  to 
throw  himself  down.  And  many  other  impious  things 
he  invented,  as  though  not  understanding  that  sick- 
nesses do  not  come  to  a  man  by  chance,  but  as  a  con- 
sequence of  conduct  not  corresponding  with  the  laws 
of  the  Eternal.  Thus  Judas  Iscariot  kept  on  rubbing 
his  chest  with  his  broad  palm,  and  even  pretended  to 
cough,  midst  a  general  silence  and  downcast  eyes. 

John,  without  looking  at  the  Teacher,  whispered 
to  his  friend  Simon  Peter — 

"Aren't  you  tired  of  that  lie?  I  can't  stand  it  any 
longer.     I  am  going  away." 

Peter  glanced  at  Jesus,  and  meeting  his  eye,  quickly 
arose. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  he  to  his  friend. 

Once  more  he  looked  at  Jesus ;  sharply  as  a  stone  torn 
from  a  mountain,  he  moved  towards  Judas,  and  said  to 
him  in  a  loud  voice,  with  expansive,  serene  courtesy — 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       173 

''You  will  come  with  us,  Judas." 

He  gave  him  a  kindly  slap  on  his  bent  back,  and 
without  looking  at  the  Teacher,  though  he  felt  His 
eye  upon  him,  resolutely  added  in  his  loud  voice,  which 
excluded  all  objection,  just  as  water  excludes  air — 

'  *  It  does  not  matter  that  you  have  such  a  nasty  face. 
There  fall  into  our  nets  even  worse  monstrosities,  and 
they  sometimes  turn  out  very  tasty  food.  It  is  not 
for  us,  our  Lord's  fishermen,  to  throw  away  a  catch, 
merely  because  the  fish  have  spines,  or  only  one  eye. 
I  saw  once  at  Tyre  an  octopus,  which  had  been  caught 
by  the  local  fishermen,  and  I  was  so  frightened  that 
I  wanted  to  run  away.  But  they  laughed  at  me.  A 
fisherman  from  Tiberias  gave  me  some  of  it  to  eat, 
and  I  asked  for  more,  it  was  so  tasty.  You  remem- 
ber. Master,  that  I  told  you  the  story,  and  you 
laughed,  too.  And  you,  Judas,  are  like  an  octopus — 
but  only  on  one  side." 

And  he  laughed  loudly,  content  with  his  joke. 
When  Peter  spoke,  his  words  resounded  so  forcibly, 
that  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  driving  them  in  with 
nails.  When  Peter  moved,  or  did  anything,  he  made 
a  noise  that  could  be  heard  afar,  and  which  called 
forth  a  response  from  the  deafest  of  things :  the  stone 
floor  rumbled  under  his  feet,  the  doors  shook  and 
rattled,  and  the  very  air  was  convulsed  with  fear, 
and  roared.  In  the  clefts  of  the  mountains  his  voice 
awoke  the  inmost  echo,  and  in  the  morning-time,  when 
they  were  fishing  on  the  lake,  he  would  roll  about  on 
the  sleepy,  glittering  water,  and  force  the  first  shy 
sunbeams  into  smiles. 


174  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

For  this  apparently  he  was  loved :  when  on  all  other 
faces  there  still  lay  the  shadow  of  night,  his  powerful 
head,  and  bare  breast,  and  freely  extended  arms  were 
already  aglow  with  the  light  of  dawn. 

The  words  of  Peter,  evidently  approved  as  they 
were  by  the  Master,  dispersed  the  oppressive  atmos- 
phere. But  some  of  the  disciples,  who  had  been  to 
the  seaside  and  had  seen  an  octopus,  were  disturbed 
by  the  monstrous  image  so  lightly  applied  to  the 
new  disciple.  They  recalled  the  immense  eyes,  the 
dozens  of  greedy  tentacles,  the  feigned  repose — and 
how  all  at  once:  it  embraced,  clung,  crushed  and 
sucked,  all  without  one  wink  of  its  monstrous  eyes. 
What  did  it  mean?  But  Jesus  remained  silent.  He 
smiled  with  a  frown  of  kindly  raillery  on  Peter,  who 
was  still  telling  glowing  tales  about  the  octopus. 
Then  one  by  one  the  disciples  shame-facedly  ap- 
proached Judas,  and  began  a  friendly  conversa- 
tion, with  him,  but — beat  a  hasty  and  awkward  re- 
treat. 

Only  John,  the  son  of  Zebedee,  maintained  an  obsti- 
nate silence;  and  Thomas  had  evidently  not  made  up 
his  mind  to  say  anything,  but  was  still  weighing  the 
matter.  He  kept  his  gaze  attentively  fixed  on  Christ 
and  Judas  as  they  sat  together.  And  that  strange 
proximity  of  divine  beauty  and  monstrous  ugliness, 
of  a  man  with  a  benign  look,  and  of  an  octopus  with 
immense,  motionless,  dully  greedy  eyes,  oppressed  his 
mind  like  an  insoluble  enigma. 

He  tensely  wrinkled  his  smooth,  upright  forehead, 
and  screwed  up   his  eyes,   thinking  that  he   would 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       175 

see  better  so,  but  only  succeeded  in  imagining  that 
Judas  really  had  eight  incessantly  moving  feet.  But 
that  was  not  true.  Thomas  understood  that,  and 
again  gazed  obstinately. 

Judas  gathered  courage:  he  straightened  out  his 
arms,  which  had  been  bent  at  the  elbows,  relaxed  the 
muscles  which  held  his  jaws  in  tension,  and  began 
cautiously  to  protrude  his  bumpy  head  into  the  light. 
It  had  been  the  whole  time  in  view  of  all,  but  Judas 
imagined  that  it  had  been  impenetrably  hidden  from 
sight  by  some  invisible,  but  thick  and  cunning  veil. 
But  lo !  now,  as  though  creeping  out  from  a  ditch,  he 
felt  his  strange  skull,  and  then  his  eyes,  in  the  light :  he 
stopped  and  then  deliberately  exposed  his  whole  face. 
Nothing  happened  ;  Peter  had  gone  away  somewhere  or 
other.  Jesus  sat  pensive,  with  His  head  leaning  on 
His  hand,  and  gently  swayed  His  sunburnt  foot.  The 
disciples  were  conversing  together,  and  only  Thomas 
gazed  at  him  attentively  and  seriously,  like  a  con- 
scientious tailor  taking  measurement.  Judas  smiled; 
Thomas  did  not  reply  to  the  smile ;  but  evidently  took 
it  into  account,  as  he  did  everything  else,  and  con- 
tinued to  gaze.  But  something  unpleasant  alarmed 
the  left  side  of  Judas '  countenance  as  he  looked  round. 
John,  handsome,  pure,  without  a  single  fleck  upon  his 
snow-white  conscience,  was  looking  at  him  out  of  a 
dark  corner,  with  cold  but  beautiful  eyes.  And 
though  he  walked  as  others  walk,  yet  Judas  felt  as 
if  he  were  dragging  himself  along  the  ground  like  a 
whipped  cur,  as  he  went  up  to  John  and  said:  "Why 
are  you  silent,  John?     Your  words  are  like  golden 


176  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

apples  in  vessels  of  silver  filigree ;  bestow  one  of  them 
on  Judas,  who  is  so  poor." 

John  looked  steadfastly  into  his  wide-open  motion- 
less eye,  and  said  nothing.  And  he  looked  on,  while 
Judas  crept  out,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  dis- 
appeared in  the  deep  darkness  of  the  open  door. 

Since  the  full  moon  was  up,  there  were  many  people 
out  walking.  Jesus  went  out  too,  and  from  the  low 
roof  on  which  Judas  had  spread  his  couch  he  saw  Him 
going  out.  In  the  light  of  the  moon  each  white  figure 
looked  bright  and  deliberate  in  its  movements;  and 
seemed  not  so  much  to  walk  as  to  glide  in  front  of  its 
dark  shadow.  Then  suddenly  a  man  would  be  lost 
in  something  black,  and  his  voice  became  audible. 
And  when  people  reappeared  in  the  moonlight,  they 
seemed  silent — like  white  walls,  or  black  shadows — 
as  everything  did  in  the  transparent  mist  of  night. 
Almost  every  one  was  asleep  when  Judas  heard  the 
soft  voice  of  Jesus  returning.  All  in  and  around 
about  the  house  was  still.  A  cock  crew;  some- 
where an  ass,  disturbed  in  his  sleep,  brayed  aloud 
and  insolently  as  in  daytime,  then  reluctantly  and 
gradually  relapsed  into  silence.  Judad  did  not 
sleep  at  all,  but  listened  surreptitiously.  The  moon 
illumined  one  half  of  his  face,  and  was  reflected 
strangely  in  his  enormous  open  eye,  as  on  the  frozen 
surface  of  a  lake. 

Suddenly  he  remembered  something,  and  hastily 
coughed,  rubbing  his  perfectly  healthy  chest  with  his 
hairy  hand :  maybe  some  one  was  not  yet  asleep,  and 
was  listening  to  what  Judas  was  thinking ! 


CHAPTER  IT 

THEY  gradually  became  used  to  Judas,  and 
ceased  to  notice  his  ugliness.  Jesus  en- 
trusted the  common  purse  to  him,  and  with 
it  there  fell  on  him  all  household  cares :  he  purchased 
the  necessary  food  and  clothing,  distributed  alms,  and 
when  they  were  on  the  road,  it  was  his  duty  to  choose 
the  place  where  they  were  to  stop,  or  to  find  a  night's 
lodging. 

All  this  he  did  very  cleverly,  so  that  in  a  short  time 
he  had  earned  the  goodwill  of  some  of  the  disciples, 
who  had  noticed  his  efforts.  Judas  was  an  habitual 
liar,  but  they  became  used  to  this,  when  they  found 
that  his  lies  were  not  followed  by  any  evil  conduct; 
nay,  they  added  a  special  picjuancy  to  his  conversation 
and  tales,  and  made  life  seem  like  a  comic,  and  some- 
times a  tragic,  tale. 

According  to  his  stories,  he  seemed  to  know  every 
one,  and  each  person  that  he  knew  had  some  time  in 
his  life  been  guilty  of  evil  conduct,  or  even  crime. 
Those,  according  to  him,  were  called  good,  who  knew 
how  to  conceal  their  thoughts  and  acts ;  but  if  one  only 
embraced,  flattered,  and  questioned  such  a  man  suf- 
ficiently, there  would  ooze  out  from  him  every  untruth, 
nastiness,  and  lie,  like  matter  from  a  pricked  wound. 

177 


178  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

He  freely  confessed  that  he  sometimes  lied  himself; 
but  affirmed  with  an  oath  that  others  were  still  greater 
liars,  and  that  if  any  one  in  this  world  was  ever  de- 
ceived, it  was  Judas. 

Indeed,  according  to  his  own  account,  he  had  been 
deceived,  time  upon  time,  in  one  way  or  another. 
Thus,  a  certain  guardian  of  the  treasures  of  a  rich 
gi'andee  once  confessed  to  him,  that  he  had  for  ten 
years  been  continually  on  the  point  of  stealing  the 
property  committed  to  him,  but  that  he  was  debarred 
by  fear  of  the  grandee,  and  of  his  own  conscience. 
And  Judas  believed  liiiu — and  he  suddenly  committed 
the  theft,  and  deceived  Judas.  But  even  then  Judas 
still  trusted  him — and  then  he  suddenly  restored  the 
stolen  treasure  to  the  grandee,  and  again  deceived 
Judas.  Yes,  everything  deceived  him,  even  animals. 
Whenever  he  pets  a  dog  it  bites  his  fingers ;  but  when 
he  beats  it  with  a  stick  it  licks  his  feet,  and  looks  into 
his  eyes  like  a  daughter.  He  killed  one  such  dog, 
and  buried  it  deep,  laj'ing  a  great  stone  on  the  top  of 
it — but  who  knows?  Perhaps  just  because  he  killed 
it,  it  has  come  to  life  again,  and  instead  of  lying  in 
the  trench,  is  running  about  cheerfully  with  other 
dogs. 

All  laughed  merrily  at  Judas'  tale,  and  he  smiled 
pleasantly  himself,  winking  his  one  lively,  mocking  eye 
— and  by  that  wery  smile  confessed  that  he  had  lied 
somewhat ;  that  he  had  not  really  killed  the  dog.  But 
he  meant  to  find  it  and  kill  it,  because  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  deceived.  And  at  these  words  of  Judas 
they  laughed  all  the  more. 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       179 

But  sometimes  in  his  tales  he  transgressed  the 
bounds  of  probability,  and  ascribed  to  people  such  pro- 
clivities as  even  the  beasts  do  not  possess,  accusing 
them  of  such  crimes  as  are  not,  and  never  have  been. 
And  since  he  named  in  this  connection  the  most  hon- 
oured people,  some  v^ere  indignant  at  the  calumny, 
while  others  jokingly  asked: 

"How  about  your  own  father  and  mother,  'Judas 
— were  they  not  good  people?" 

Judas  winked  his  eye,  and  smiled  with  a  gesture 
of  his  hands.  And  the  fixed,  wide-open  eye  shook 
in  unison  with  the  shaking  of  his  head,  and  looked  out 
in  silence. 

* '  But  who  was  my  father  ?  Perhaps  it  was  the  man 
who  used  to  beat  me  with  a  rod,  or  may  be — a  devil, 
a  goat  or  a  cock.  .  .  .  How  can  Judas  tell?  How 
can  Judas  tell  with  whom  his  mother  shared  her  couch. 
Judas  had  many  fathers:  to  which  of  them  do  you 
refer?" 

But  at  this  they  were  all  indignant,  for  they  had  a 
profound  reverence  for  parents;  and  IMatthew,  who 
was  very  learned  in  the  scriptures,  said  severely  in  the 
words  of  Solomon: 

"  'Whoso  slandereth  his  father  and  his  mother,  his 
lamp  shall  be  extinguished  in  deep  darkness.'  " 

But  John  the  son  of  Zebedee  haughtily  jerked  out : 
' '  And  what  of  us  ?  What  evil  have  you  to  say  of  us, 
Judas  Iscariot?" 

But  he  Avaved  his  hands  in  simulated  terror,  whined, 
and  bowed  like  a  beggar,  who  has  in  vain  asked  an 
alms  of  a  passer-by:    "Ah!  they  are  tempting  poor 


180  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Judas !  They  are  laughing  at  him,  they  wish  to  take 
in  the  poor,  trusting  Judas!"  And  while  one  side  of 
his  face  was  crinkled  up  in  buffooning  grimaces,  the 
other  side  wagged  sternly  and  severely,  and  the 
never-closing  eye  looked  out  in  a  broad  stare. 

More  and  louder  than  any  laughed  Simon  Peter  at 
the  jokes  of  Judas  Iscariot.  But  once  it  happened 
that  he  suddenly  frowned,  and  became  silent  and  sad, 
and  hastily  dragging  Judas  aside  by  the  sleeve,  he 
bent  down,  and  asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper — 

"But  Jesus?  What  do  you  think  of  Jesus?  Speak 
seriously,  I  entreat  you." 

Judas  cast  on  him  a  malign  glance. 

* '  And  what  do  you  think  ? ' ' 

Peter  whispered  with  awe  and  gladness — 

"I  think  that  He  is  the  son  of  the  living  God." 

*  *  Then  why  do  you  ask  ?  What  can  Judas  tell  you, 
whose  father  was  a  goat?" 

"But  do  you  love  Him?  You  do  not  seem  to  love 
any  one,  Judas." 

And  with  the  same  strange  malignity,  Iscariot 
blurted  out  abruptly  and  sharply:     "I  do." 

Some  two  days  after  this  conversation,  Peter  openly 
dubbed  Judas  "my  friend  the  octopus";  but  Judas 
awkwardly,  and  ever  with  the  same  malignity,  endeav- 
oured to  creep  away  from  him  into  some  dark  corner, 
and  would  sit  there  morosely  glaring  with  his  white, 
never-closing  eye. 

Thomas  alone  took  him  quite  seriously.  He  under- 
stood nothing  of  jokes,  hj^pocrisy  or  lies,  nor  of  the 
play  upon  words  and  thoughts,  but  investigated  every- 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      181 

thing  positively  to  the  very  bottom.  He  would  often 
interrupt  Judas '  stories  about  wicked  people  and  their 
conduct  with  short  practical  remarks: 

"You  must  prove  that.  Did  you  hear  it  yourself? 
Was  there  any  one  present  besides  yourself?  What 
was  his  name  ? ' ' 

At  this  Judas  would  get  angry,  and  shrilly  cry  out, 
that  he  had  seen  and  heard  everything  himself;  but 
the  obstinate  Thomas  would  go  on  cross-examining 
quietly  and  persistently,  until  Judas  confessed  that 
he  had  lied,  or  until  he  invented  some  new  and  more 
probable  lie,  which  provided  the  others  for  some  time 
with  food  for  thought.  But  when  Thomas  discovered 
a  discrepancy,  he  would  immediately  come  and  calmly 
expose  the  liar. 

Usually  Judas  excited  in  him  a  strong  curiosity, 
which  brought  about  between  them  a  sort  of  friend- 
ship, full  of  wrangling,  jeering,  and  invective  on  the 
one  side,  and  of  quiet  insistence  on  the  other.  Some- 
times Judas  felt  an  unbearable  aversion  to  his  strange 
friend,  and,  transfixing  him  with  a  sharp  glance,  would 
say  irritably,  and  almost  with  entreaty — 

"What  more  do  you  want?     I  have  told  you  all." 

"I  want  you  to  prove  how  it  is  possible  that  a  he- 
goat  should  be  your  father,"  Thomas  would  reply 
with  calm  insistency,  and  wait  for  an  answer. 

It  chanced  once,  that  after  such  a  question,  Judas 
suddenly  stopped  speaking  and  gazed  at  him  with  sur- 
prise from  head  to  foot.  What  he  saw  was  a  tall,  up- 
right figure,  a  grey  face,  honest  eyes  of  transparent 
blue,  two  fat  folds  beginning  at  the  nose  and  losing 


182  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

themselves  in  a  stiff,  evenly-trimmed  beard.  He  said 
with  conviction : 

"What  a  stupid  you  are,  Thomas!  What  do  you 
dream  about — a  tree,  a  wall,  or  a  donkey?" 

Thomas  was  in  some  way  strangely  perturbed,  and 
made  no  reply.  But  at  night,  when  Judas  was  al- 
ready closing  his  vivid,  restless  eye  for  sleep,  he  sud- 
denly said  aloud  from  where  he  lay — the  two  now 
slept  together  on  the  roof — 

"You  are  wrong,  Judas.  I  have  very  bad  dreams. 
What  think  you?  Are  people  responsible  for  their 
dreams  ? ' ' 

"Does,  then,  any  one  but  the  dreamer  see  a 
dream?"  Judas  replied. 

Thomas  sighed  gently,  and  became  thoughtful. 
But  Judas  smiled  contemptuously,  and  firmly  closed 
his  roguish  eye,  and  quickly  gave  himself  up  to  his 
mutinous  dreams,  monstrous  ravings,  mad  phantoms, 
which  rent  his  bumpy  skull  to  pieces. 

When,  during  Jesus'  travels  about  Judaea,  the  dis- 
ciples approached  a  village,  Iscariot  would  speak  evil 
of  the  inhabitants  and  foretell  misfortune.  But  al- 
most always  it  happened  that  the  people,  of  whom  he 
had  spoken  evil,  met  Christ  and  His  friends  with 
gladness,  and  surrounded  them  with  attentions  and 
love,  and  became  believers,  and  Judas'  money-box  be- 
came so  full  that  it  was  difficult  to  carry.  And  when 
they  laughed  at  his  mistake,  he  would  make  a  humble 
gesture  with  his  hands,  and  say : 

"Well,  well!  Judas  thought  that  thoy  were  bad, 
and  they  turned  out  to  be  good.     They  quickly  be- 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       183 

lieved,  and  gave  money.  That  only  means  that  Judas 
has  been  deceived  once  more,  the  poor,  confiding  Ju- 
das Iscariot!" 

But  on  one  occasion,  when  they  had  already  gone 
far  from  a  village,  which  had  welcomed  them  kindly, 
Thomas  and  Judas  began  a  hot  dispute,  to  settle 
which  they  turned  back,  and  did  not  overtake  Jesus 
and  His  disciples  until  the  next  day.  Thomas  wore  a 
perturbed  and  sorrowful  appearance,  while  Judas 
had  such  a  proud  look,  that  you  would  have  thought 
that  he  expected  them  to  offer  him  their  congratula- 
tions and  thanks  upon  the  spot.  Approaching  the 
Master,  Thomas  declared  with  decision :  ' '  Judas  was 
right,  Lord.  They  were  ill-disposed,  stupid  people. 
And  the  seeds  of  your  words  has  fallen  upon  the 
rock."  And  he  related  what  had  happened  in  the 
village. 

After  Jesus  and  His  disciples  left  it,  an  old  woman 
had  begun  to  cry  out  that  her  little  white  kid  had 
been  stolen,  and  she  laid  the  theft  at  the  door  of  the 
visitors  who  had  just  departed.  At  first  the  people 
had  disputed  with  her,  but  when  she  obstinately  in- 
sisted that  there  was  no  one  else  who  could  have  done 
it  except  Jesus,  many  agreed  with  her,  and  even  were 
about  to  start  in  pursuit.  And  although  they  soon 
found  the  kid  straying  in  the  underwood,  they  still 
decided  that  Jesus  was  a  deceiver,  and  possibly  a  thief. 

"So  that's  what  they  think  of  us,  is  it?"  cried 
Peter,  with  a  snort.  "Lord,  wilt  Thou  that  I  return 
to  those  fools,  and — " 

But  Jesus,  saying  not  a  word,  gazed  severely  at  him, 


184  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

and  Peter  in  silence  retired  behind  the  others.  And 
no  one  ever  referred  to  the  incident  again,  as  though 
it  had  never  occurred,  and  as  though  Judas  had  been 
proved  wrong.  In  vain  did  he  show  himself  on  all 
sides,  endeavouring  to  give  to  his  double,  crafty,  hook- 
nosed face  an  expression  of  modesty.  They  would 
not  look  at  him,  and  if  by  chance  any  one  did  glance 
at  him,  it  was  in  a  very  unfriendly,  not  to  say  con- 
temptuous, manner. 

From  that  day  on  Jesus'  treatment  of  him 
underAvent  a  strange  change.  Formerly,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  Judas  never  used  to  speak  directly 
with  Jesus,  who  never  addressed  Himself  directly  to 
him,  but  nevertheless  would  often  glance  at  him  with 
kindly  eyes,  smile  at  his  rallies,  and  if  He  had  not 
seen  him  for  some  time,  would  inquire:  "Where  is 
Judas?" 

But  now  He  looked  at  )iim  as  if  He  did  not  see  him, 
although  as  before,  and  indeed  more  determinedly 
than  formerly.  He  sought  him  out  with  His  eyes 
every  time  that  He  began  to  speak  to  the  disciples  or 
to  the  people ;  but  He  was  either  sitting  with  His  back 
to  him,  so  that  He  was  obliged,  as  it  were,  to  cast  His 
words  over  His  head  so  as  to  reach  Judas,  or  else  He 
made  as  though  He  did  not  notice  him  at  all.  And 
whatever  He  said,  though  it  was  one  thing  one  day, 
and  then  next  day  quite  another,  although  it  might  be 
the  very  thing  that  Judas  was  thinking,  it  always 
seemed  as  though  He  were  speaking  against  him.  To 
all  He  was  the  tender,  beautiful  flower,  the  sweet- 
smelling  rose  of  Lebanon,  but  for  Judas  He  left  only 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      185 

sharp  thorns,  as  though  Judas  had  neither  heart,  nor 
sight,  nor  smell,  and  did  not  understand,  even  better 
than  any,  the  beauty  of  tender,  immaculate  petals. 

* '  Thomas !  Do  you  like  the  yellow  rose  of  Lebanon, 
which  has  a  swarthy  countenance  and  eyes  like  the 
roe  ? "  he  inquired  once  of  his  friend,  who  replied  in- 
differently— 

"Rose?  Yes,  I  like  the  smell.  But  I  have  never 
heard  of  a  rose  with  a  swarthy  countenance  and  eyes 
like  a  roe ! ' ' 

"What?  Do  you  not  know  that  the  polydactylous 
cactus,  which  tore  your  new  garment  yesterday,  has 
only  one  beautiful  flower,  and  only  one  eye?" 

But  Thomas  did  not  know  this,  although  only  yes- 
terday a  cactus  had  actually  caught  in  his  garment 
and  torn  it  into  wretched  rags.  But  then  Thomas 
never  did  know  anything,  though  he  asked  questions 
about  everything,  and  looked  so  straight  with  his 
bright,  transparent  eyes,  through  which,  as  through  a 
pane  of  Phoenician  glass,  was  visible  a  wall,  with  a  dis- 
mal ass  tied  to  it. 

Some  time  later  another  occurrence  took  place,  in 
which  Judas  again  proved  to  be  in  the  right. 

At  a  certain  village  in  Judsea,  of  which  Judas  had 
so  bad  an  opinion,  that  he  had  advised  them  to  avoid 
it,  the  people  received  Christ  with  hostility,  and  after 
His  sermon  and  exposition  of  hypocrites  they  burst 
into  fury,  and  threatened  to  stone  Jesus  and  His  disci- 
ples. Enemies  He  had  many,  and  most  likely  they 
would  have  carried  out  their  sinister  intention,  but 
for  Judas  Iscariot.     Seized  with  a  mad  fear  for  Je- 


186  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

sus,  as  though  he  already  saw  the  drops  of  ruby  blood 
upon  His  white  garment,  Judas  threw  himself  in 
blind  fury  upon  the  crowd,  scolding,  screeching,  be- 
seeching, and  lying,  and  thus  gave  time  and  oppor- 
tunity to  Jesus  and  His  disciples  to  escape. 

Amazingly  active,  as  though  running  upon  a  dozen 
feet,  laughable  and  terrible  in  his  fury  and  entreaties, 
he  threw  himself  madly  in  front  of  the  crowd  and 
charmed  it  with  a  certain  strange  power.  He  shouted 
that  the  Nazarene  was  not  possessed  of  a  devil,  that 
He  was  simply  an  impostor,  a  thief  who  loved  money 
as  did  all  His  disciples,  and  even  Judas  himself:  and 
he  rattled  the  money-box,  grimaced,  and  beseeched, 
throwing  himself  on  the  ground.  And  by  degrees 
the  anger  of  the  crowd  changed  into  laughter  and  dis- 
gufet,  and  they  let  fall  the  stones  which  they  had 
picked  up  to  throw  at  them. 

"They  are  not  fit  to  die  by  the  hands  of  an  honest 
person,"  said  they,  while  others  thoughtfully  fol- 
lowed the  rapidly  disappearing  Judas  with  their 
eyes. 

Again  Judas  expected  to  receive  congratulations, 
praise,  and  thanks,  and  made  a  show  of  his  torn  gar- 
ments, and  pretended  that  he  had  been  beaten ;  but 
this  time,  too,  he  was  greatly  mistaken.  The  an- 
gry Jesus  strode  on  in  silence,  and  even  Peter  and 
John  did  not  venture  to  approach  Him :  and  all  whose 
eyes  fell  on  Judas  in  his  torn  garments,  his  face 
glowing  with  happiness,  but  still  somewhat  fright- 
ened, repelled  him  with  curt,  angry  exclamations. 

It  was  just  as  though  he  had  not  saved  them  all, 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      187 

just  as  though  he  had  not  saved  their  Teacher,  whom 
they  loved  so  dearly. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  some  fools?"  said  he  to 
Thomas,  who  was  thoughtfully  walking  in  the  rear. 
"Look!  There  they  go  along  the  road  in  a  crowd, 
like  a  flock  of  sheep,  kicking  up  the  dust.  But  you 
are  wise,  Thomas,  you  creep  on  behind,  and  I,  the 
noble,  magnificent  Judas,  creep  on  behind  like  a  dirty 
slave,  who  has  no  place  by  the  side  of  his  masters." 

"Why  do  you  call  yourself  magnificent?"  asked 
Thomas  in  surprise. 

"Because  I  am  so,"  Judas  replied  with  conviction, 
and  he  went  on  talking,  giving  more  details  of  how 
he  had  deceived  the  enemies  of  Jesus,  and  laughed  at 
them  and  their  stupid  stones, 

"But  you  told  lies,*'  said  Thomas. 

"Of  course  I  did,"  quickly  assented  Iscariot.  "I 
gave  them  what  they  asked  for,  and  they  gave  me  in 
return  what  I  wanted.  And  what  is  a  lie,  my  clever 
Thomas  ?  Would  not  the  death  of  Jesus  be  the  great- 
est lie  of  all?" 

"You  did  not  act  rightly.  Now  I  believe  that  a 
devil  is  your  father.  It  was  he  that  taught  you, 
Judas." 

The  face  of  Judas  grew  pale,  and  something  sud- 
denly came  over  Thomas,  and  as  if  it  were  a  white 
cloud,  passed  over  and  concealed  the  road  and  Jesus. 
With  a  gentle  movement  Judas  just  as  suddenly 
drew  Thomas  to  himself,  pressed  him  closely  with  a 
paralysing  movement,  and  whispered  in  his  ear — 

"You  mean,  then,  that  a  devil  has  instructed  me, 


188  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

don't  you,  Thomas?  Well,  I  saved  Jesus.  There- 
fore a  devil  loves  Jesus  and  has  need  of  Him,  and  of 
the  truth.  Is  it  not  so,  Thomas?  But  then  my 
father  was  not  a  devil,  but  a  he-goat.  Can  a  he-goat 
want  Jesus?  Eh?  And  don't  you  want  Him  your- 
selves, and  the  truth  also?" 

Angry  and  slightly  frightened,  Thomas  freed  him- 
self with  difficulty  from  the  clinging  embrace  of  Ju- 
das, and  began  to  stride  forward  quickly.  But  he 
soon  slackened  his  pace  as  he  endeavoured  to  under- 
stand what  had  taken  place. 

But  Judas  crept  on  gently  behind,  and  gradually 
came  to  a  standstill.  And  lo!  in  the  distance  the 
pedestrians  became  blended  into  a  parti-coloured 
mass,  so  that  it  was  impossible  any  longer  to  distin- 
guish which  among  those  little  figures  was  Jesus. 
And  lol  the  little  Thomas,  too,  changed  into  a  grey 
spot,  and  suddenly — all  disappeared  round  a  turn  in 
the  road. 

Looking  round,  Judas  went  down  from  the  road 
and  with  immense  leaps  descended  into  the  depths  of 
a  rocky  ravine.  His  clothes  blew  out  with  the  speed 
and  abruptness  of  his  course,  and  his  hands  were  ex- 
tended upwards  as  though  he  would  fly.  Lo !  now  he 
crept  along  an  abrupt  declivity,  and  suddenly  rolled 
down  in  a  grey  ball,  rubbing  off  his  skin  against  the 
stones ;  then  he  jumped  up  and  angrily  threatened  the 
mountain  with  his  fist — 

*'You  too,  damn  you!" 

Suddenly  he  changed  his  quick  movements  into  a 
comfortable,  concentrated  dawdling,  chose  a  place  by 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       189 

a  big  stone,  and  sat  down  without  hurry.  He  turned 
himself,  as  if  seeking  a  comfortable  position,  laid  his 
hands  side  by  side  on  the  grey  stone,  and  heavily 
sank  his  head  upon  them.  And  so  for  an  hour  or  two 
he  sat  on,  as  motionless  and  grey  as  the  grey  stone 
itself,  so  still  that  he  deceived  even  the  birds.  The 
walls  of  the  ravine  rose  before  him,  and  behind,  and 
on  every  side,  cutting  a  sharp  line  all  round  on  the 
blue  sky;  while  everywhere  immense  grey  stones  ob- 
truded from  the  ground,  as  though  there  had  been 
at  some  time  or  other,  a  shower  here,  and  as  though 
its  heavy  drops  had  become  petrified  in  endless 
split,  upturned  skull,  and  every  stone  in  it  was  like  a 
petrified  thought ;  and  there  were  many  of  them,  and 
they  all  kept  thinking  heavily,  boundlessly,  stub- 
bornly. 

A  scorpion,  deceived  by  his  quietness,  hobbled  past, 
on  its  tottering  legs,  close  to  Judas.  He  threw  a 
glance  at  it,  and,  without  lifting  his  head  from  the 
stone,  again  let  both  his  eyes  rest  fixedly  on  something 
— both  motionless,  both  veiled  in  a  strange  whitish 
turbidness,  both  as  though  blind  and  yet  terribly  alert. 
And  lo!  from  out  of  the  ground,  the  stones,  and  the 
clefts,  the  quiet  darkness  of  night  began  to  rise,  en- 
veloped the  motionless  Judas,  and  crept  swiftly  up 
towards  the  pallid  light  of  the  sky.  Night  was  com- 
ing on  with  its  thoughts  and  dreams. 

That  night  Judas  did  not  return  to  the  halting- 
place.  And  the  disciples,  forgetting  their  thoughts, 
busied  themselves  with  preparations  for  their  meal, 
j^nd  grumbled  at  his  negligence. 


CHAPTER  III 

ONCE,  about  mid-day,  Jesus  and  His  disciples 
were  walking  along  a  stony  and  hilly  road 
devoid  of  shade,  and,  since  they  had  been 
more  than  five  hours  afoot,  Jesus  began  to  complain 
of  weariness.  The  disciples  stopped,  and  Peter  and 
his  friend  John  spread  their  cloaks  and  those  of  the 
oth^r  disciples,  on  the  ground,  and  fastened  them 
above  between  two  high  rocks,  and  so  made  a  sort  of 
tent  for  Jesus.  He  lay  down  in  the  tent,  resting  from 
the  heat  of  the  sun,  while  they  amused  Him  with 
pleasant  conversation  and  jokes.  But  seeing  that 
even  talking  fatigued  Him,  and  being  themselves  but 
little  affected  by  weariness  and  the  heat,  they  went 
some  distance  off  and  occupied  themselves  in  various 
ways.  One  sought  edible  roots  among  the  stones  on 
the  slope  of  the  mountain,  and  when  he  had  found 
them  brought  them  to  Jesus;  another,  climbing  up 
higher  and  higher,  searched  musingly  for  the  limits  of 
the  blue  distance,  and  failing,  climbed  up  higher  on 
to  new,  sharp-pointed  rocks.  John  found  a  beautiful 
little  blue  lizard  among  the  stones,  and  smiling 
brought  it  quickly  with  tender  hands  to  Jesus.  The 
lizard  looked  with  its  protuberant,  mysterious  eyes 
into  His,  and  then  crawled  quickly  with  its  cold  body 
over  His  warm  hand,  and  soon  swiftly  disappeared 
with  tender,  quivering  tail. 

190 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      191 

But  Peter  and  Philip,  not  caring  about  such  amuse- 
ments, occupied  themselves  in  tearing  up  great  stones 
from  the  mountain,  and  hurling  them  down  below,  as 
a  test  of  their  strength.  The  others,  attracted  by 
their  loud  laughter,  by  degrees  gathered  round  them, 
and  joined  in  their  sport.  Exerting  their  strength, 
they  would  tear  up  from  the  ground  an  ancient  rock 
all  overgrown,  and  lifting  it  high  with  both  hands, 
hurl  it  down  the  slope.  Heavily  it  would  strike  with 
a  dull  thud,  and  hesitate  for  a  moment;  then 
resolutely  it  would  make  a  first  leap,  and  each  time  it 
touched  the  ground,  gathering  from  it  speed  and 
strength,  it  would  become  light,  furious,  all-subver- 
sive. Now  it  no  longer  leapt,  but  flew  with  grinning 
teeth,  and  the  whistling  wind  let  its  dull  round  mass 
pass  by.  Lo!  it  is  on  the  edge — with  a  last,  floating 
motion  the  stone  would  sweep  high,  and  then  quietly, 
with  ponderous  deliberation,  fly  downwards  in  a  curve 
to  the  invisible  bottom  of  the  precipice. 

"Now  then,  another!"  cried  Peter.  His  white 
teeth  shone  between  his  black  beard  and  moustache, 
his  mighty  chest  and  arms  were  bare,  and  the  sullen, 
ancient  rocks,  dully  wondering  at  the  strength  which 
lifted  them,  obediently,  one  after  another,  precipitated 
themselves  into  the  abyss.  Even  the  frail  John  threw 
some  moderate-sized  stones,  and  Jesus  smiled  quietly 
as  He  looked  at  their  sport. 

"But  what  are  you  doing,  Judas?  Why  do  you 
not  take  part  in  the  game?  It  seems  amusing 
enough?"  asked  Thomas,  when  he  found  his  strange 
friend  motionless  behind  a  great  grey  stone. 


19S  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"I  have  a  pain  in  my  chest.  Moreover,  they  have 
not  invited  me." 

' '  What  need  of  invitation !  At  all  events,  I  invite 
you ;  come !    Look  what  stones  Peter  throws ! ' ' 

Judas  somehow  or  other  happened  to  glance  side- 
ward at  him,  and  Thomas  became,  for  the  first  time, 
indistinctly  aware  that  he  had  two  faces.  But  before 
he  could  thoroughly  grasp  the  fact,  Judas  said  in  his 
ordinary  tone,  at  once  fawning  and  mocking — 

' '  There  is  surely  none  stronger  than  Peter  ?  When 
he  shouts,  all  the  asses  in  Jerusalem  think  that  their 
Messiah  has  arrived,  and  lift  up  their  voices  too.  You 
have  heard  them  before  now,  have  you  not,  Thomas  ? ' ' 

Smiling  politely,  and  modestly  wrapping  his  gar- 
ment round  his  chest,  which  was  overgrown  with  red 
curly  hairs,  Judas  stepped  into  the  circle  of  players. 

And  since  they  were  all  in  high  good  humour,  they 
met  him  with  mirth  and  loud  jokes,  and  even  John 
condescended  to  vouchsafe  a  smile,  when  Judas,  pre- 
tending to  groan  with  the  exertion,  laid  hold  of  an 
immense  stone.  But  lo!  he  lifted  it  with  ease,  and 
threw  it,  and  his  blind,  wide-open  eye  gave  a  jerk,  and 
then  fixed  itself  immovably  on  Peter;  while  the  other 
eye,  cunning  and  merry,  was  overflowing  with  quiet 
laughter. 

"No!  you  throw  again!"  said  Peter  in  an  offended 
tone. 

And  lo!  one  after  the  other  they  kept  lifting  and 
throwing  gigantic  stones,  while  the  disciples  looked 
on  in  amazement.  Peter  threw  a  great  stone,  and 
then  Judas  a  still  bigger  one.    Peter,  frowning  and 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      193 

concentrated,  angrily  wielded  a  fragment  of  rock, 
and  struggling  as  he  lifted  it,  hurled  it  down;  then 
Judas,  without  ceasing  to  smile,  searched  for  a  still 
larger  fragment,  and  digging  his  long  fingers  into  it, 
grasped  it,  and  swinging  himself  together  with  it,  and 
paling,  sent  it  into  the  gulf.  When  he  had  thrown 
his  stone,  Peter  would  recoil  and  so  watch  its  fall; 
but  Judas  always  bent  himself  forward,  stretched  out 
his  long  vibrant  arms,  as  though  he  were  going  to  fly 
after  the  stone.  Eventually  both  of  them,  first  Peter, 
then  Judas,  seized  hold  of  an  old  grey  stone,  but 
neither  one  nor  the  other  could  move  it.  All  red  with 
his  exertion,  Peter  resolutely  approached  Jesus,  and 
said  aloud — 

' '  Lord !  I  do  not  wish  to  be  beaten  by  Judas.  Help 
me  to  throw  this  stone. ' ' 

Jesus  made  answer  in  a  low  voice,  and  Peter, 
shrugging  his  broad  shoulders  in  dissatisfaction,  but 
not  daring  to  make  any  rejoinder,  came  back  with  the 
words — 

"He  says:     'But  who  will  help  Iscariot?'  " 

Then  glancing  at  Judas,  who,  panting  with  clenched 
teeth,  was  still  embracing  the  stubborn  stone,  he 
laughed  cheerfully — 

"Look  what  an  invalid  he  is!  See  what  our  poor 
sick  Judas  is  doing!" 

And  even  Judas  laughed  at  being  so  unexpectedly 
exposed  in  his  deception,  and  all  the  others  laughed 
too,  and  even  Thomas  allowed  his  pointed,  grey,  over- 
hanging moustache  to  relax  into  a  smile. 

And  so  in  friendly  chat  and  laughter,  they  all  set 


194  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

out  again  on  the  way,  and  Peter,  quite  reconciled  to 
his  victor,  kept  from  time  to  time  digging  him  in  the 
ribs,  and  loudly  guffawed — 

"There's  an  invalid  for  you!" 

All  of  them  praised  Judas,  and  acknowledged  him 
victor,  and  all  chatted  with  him  in  a  friendly  manner ; 
but  Jesus  once  again  had  no  word  of  praise  for  Judas. 
He  walked  silently  in  front,  nibbling  the  grasses, 
which  He  plucked.  And  gradually,  one  by  one,  the 
disciples  craved  laughing,  and  went  over  to  Jesus. 
So  that  in  a  short  time  it  came  about,  that  they  were 
all  walking  ahead  in  a  compact  body,  while  Judas — 
the  victor,  the  strong  man — crept  on  behind,  choking 
with  dust. 

And  lo !  they  stood  still,  and  Jesus  laid  His  hand  on 
Peter's  shoulder,  while  with  His  other  He  pointed 
into  the  distance,  where  Jerusalem  had  just  become 
visible  in  the  smoke.  And  the  broad,  strong  back 
of  Peter  gently  accepted  that  slight  sunburnt  hand. 

For  the  night  they  stayed  in  Bethany,  at  the  house 
of  Lazarus.  And  when  all  were  gathered  together  for 
conversation,  Judas  thought  that  they  would  now  re- 
call his  victory  over  Peter,  and  sat  down  nearer. 
But  the  disciples  were  silent  and  unusually  pensive. 
Images  of  the  road  they  had  traversed,  of  the  sun, 
the  rocks  and  the  grass,  of  Christ  lying  down  under 
the  shelter,  quietly  floated  through  their  heads, 
breathing  a  soft  pensiveness,  begetting  confused  but 
sweet  reveries  of  an  eternal  movement  under  the  sun. 
The  wearied  body  reposed  sweetly,  and  thought  was 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       195 

merged  in  something  mystically  great  and  beautiful 
— and  no  one  recalled  Judas! 

Judas  went  out,  and  then  returned.  Jesns  was  dis- 
coursing, and  His  disciples  were  listening  to  Him  in 
silence. 

Mary  sat  at  His  feet,  motionless  as  a  statue,  and 
gazed  into  His  face  with  upturned  eyes.  John  had 
come  quite  close,  and  endeavoured  to  sit  so  that  his 
hand  touched  the  garment  of  the  Master,  but  with- 
out disturbing  Him.  He  touched  Him  and  was  still. 
Peter  breathed  loud  and  deeply,  repeating  under  his 
breath  the  words  of  Jesus. 

Iseariot  had  stopped  short  on  the  threshold,  and 
contemptuously  letting  his  gaze  pass  by  the  company, 
he  concentrated  all  its  fire  on  Jesus.  And  the  more 
he  looked  the  more  everything  around  Him  seemed  to 
fade,  and  to  become  clothed  with  darkness  and  silence, 
while  Jesus  alone  shone  forth  with  uplifted  hand. 
And  then,  lo!  He  was,  as  it  were,  raised  up  into  the 
air,  and  melted  away,  as  though  He  consisted  of  mist 
floating  over  a  lake,  and  penetrated  by  the  light  of 
the  setting  moon,  and  His  soft  speech  began  to  sound 
tenderly,  somewhere  far,  far  away.  And  gazing  at 
the  wavering  phantom,  and  drinking  in  the  tender 
melody  of  the  distant  dream-like  words,  Judas  gath- 
ered his  whole  soul  into  his  iron  fingers,  and  in  its 
vast  darkness  silently  began  building  up  some  colos- 
sal scheme.  Slowly,  in  the  profound  darkness,  he  kept 
lifting  up  masses,  like  mountains,  and  quite  easily 
heaping  them  one  on  another:  and  again  he  would 


196  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

lift  up  and  again  heap  them  up ;  and  something  grew 
in  the  darkness,  spread  noiselessly  and  burst  its 
bounds.  His  head  felt  like  a  dome,  in  the  impene- 
trable darkness  of  which  the  colossal  thing  continued 
to  grow,  and  some  one,  working  on  in  silence,  kept 
lifting  up  masses  like  mountains,  and  piling  them  one 
on  another  and  again  lifting  up,  and  so  on  and  on  .  .  . 
whilst  somewhere  in  the  distance  the  phantom-like 
words  tenderly  sounded. 

Thus  he  stood  blocking  the  doorway,  huge  and 
black,  while  Jesus  went  on  talking,  and  the  strong, 
intermittent  breathing  of  Peter  repeated  His  words 
aloud.  But  on  a  sudden  Jesus  broke  off  an  unfinished 
sentence,  and  Peter,  as  though  waking  from  sleep, 
cried  out  exultingly — 

"Lord!  to  Thee  are  known  the  words  of  eternal 
life!" 

But  Jesus  held  His  peace,  and  kept  gazing  fixedly 
in  one  direction.  And  when  they  followed  His  gaze 
they  perceived  in  the  doorway  the  petrified  Judas 
with  gaping  mouth  and  fixed  eyes.  And,  not  under- 
standing what  was  the  matter,  they  laughed.  But 
Matthew,  who  was  learned  in  the  Scriptures,  touched 
Judas  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  in  the  words  of  Solo- 
mon-— 

*  "He  that  looketh  kindly  shall  be  forgiven;  but  he 
that  is  met  within  the  gates  will  impede  others,"  ' 

Judas  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  fretfully 
and  everything  about  him,  his  eyes,  hands  and  feet, 
seemed  to  start  in  different  directions,  as  those  of  an 
animal  which  suddenly  perceives  the  eye  of  man  upon 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      197 

him.  Jesus  went  straight  to  Judas,  as  though  words 
trembled  on  His  lips,  but  passed  by  him  through  the 
open,  and  now  unoccupied,  door. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  restless  Thomas  came 
to  Judas'  bed,  and  sitting  down  on  his  heels,  asked — 

"Are  you  weeping,  Judas?" 

"No!    Go  away,  Thomas." 

"Why  do  you  groan,  and  grind  your  teeth?  Are 
you  ill?" 

Judas  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  fretfully 
there  fell  from  his  lips  distressful  words,  fraught  with 
grief  and  anger — 

"Why  does  not  He  love  me?  Why  does  He  love 
the  others  ?  Am  I  not  handsomer,  better  and  stronger 
than  they?  Did  not  I  save  His  life  while  they  ran 
away  like  cowardly  dogs?" 

' '  My  poor  friend,  you  are  not  quite  right.  You  are 
not  good-looking  at  all,  and  your  tongue  is  as  dis- 
agreeable as  your  face.  You  lie  and  slander  contin- 
ually ;  how  then  can  you  expect  Jesus  to  love  you  ? ' ' 

But  Judas,  stirring  heavily  in  the  darkness,  com- 
tinued  as  though  he  heard  him  not — 

"Why  is  He  not  on  the  side  of  Judas,  instead  of  on 
the  side  of  those  who  do  not  love  Him  1  John  brought 
Him  a  lizard ;  I  would  bring  Him  a  poisonous  snake. 
Peter  threw  stones ;  I  would  overthrow  a  mountain  for 
His  sake.  But  what  is  a  poisonous  snake?  One  has 
but  to  draw  its  fangs,  and  it  will  coil  round  one 's  neck 
like  a  necklace.  What  is  a  mountain,  which  it  is  pos- 
sible to  dig  down  with  the  hands,  and  to  trample  with 
the  feet  ?     I  would  give  to  Him  Judas,  the  bold,  mag- 


198  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

nificent  Judas.  But  now  He  will  perish,  and  together 
with  Him  will  perish  Judas." 

"You  are  speaking  strangely,  Judas!" 

**A  withered  fig-tree,  which  must  needs  be  cut  down 
with  the  axe,  such  am  I :  He  said  it  of  me.  Why  then 
does  He  not  do  it?  He  dare  not,  Thomas!  I  know 
Him.  He  fears  Judas.  He  hides  from  the  bold, 
strong,  magnificent  Judas.  He  loves  fools,  traitors, 
liars.  You  are  a  liar,  Thomas;  have  you  never  been 
told  so  before?" 

Thomas  was  much  surprised,  and  wished  to  object, 
but  he  thought  that  Judas  was  simply  railing,  and  so 
only  shook  his  head  in  the  darkness.  And  Judas  la- 
mented still  more  grievously,  and  groaned  and  ground 
his  teeth,  and  his  whole  huge  body  could  be  heard 
heaving  under  the  coverlet. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Judas?  Who  has  ap- 
plied fire  to  his  body?  He  will  give  his  son  to  the 
dogs.  He  will  give  his  daughter  to  be  betrayed  by 
robbers,  his  bride  to  harlotry.  And  yet  has  not  Judas 
a  tender  heart  ?  Go  away,  Thomas ;  go  away,  stupid ! 
Leave  the  strong,  bold,  magnificent  Judas  alone!" 


\ ' 


CHAPTER  rv 

JUDAS  had  concealed  some  denarii,  and  the  decep- 
tion was  discovered,  thanks  to  Thomas,  who  had 
seen  by  chance  how  much  money  had  been  given 
to  them.  It  was  only  too  probable  that  this  was  not 
the  first  time  that  Judas  had  committed  a  theft,  and 
they  all  were  enraged.  The  angry  Peter  seized  Judas 
by  his  collar  and  almost  dragged  him  to  Jesus,  and  the 
terrified  Judas  paled  but  did  not  resist. 

"Master,  see!  Here  he  is,  the  trickster!  Here's 
the  thief.  You  trusted  him,  and  he  steals  our  money. 
Thief!     Scoundrel!     If  Thou  wilt  permit,  I'll—" 

But  Jesus  held  His  peace.  And  attentively  re- 
garding him,  Peter  suddenly  turned  red,  and  loosed 
the  hand  which  held  the  collar,  while  Judas  shyly  re- 
arranged his  garment,  casting  a  sidelong  glance  on 
Peter,  and  assuming  the  downcast  look  of  a  repentant 
criminal. 

"So  that's  how  it's  to  be,"  angrily  said  Peter,  as 
he  went  out,  loudly  slamming  the  door.  They  were 
all  dissatisfied,  and  declared  that  on  no  account  would 
they  consort  with  Judas  any  longer;  but  John,  after 
some  consideration,  passed  through  the  door,  behind 
which  might  be  heard  the  quiet,  almost  caressing, 
voice  of  Jesus.  And  when  in  the  course  of  time  he 
returned,  he  was  pale,  and  his  downcast  eyes  were  red 

as  though  with  recent  tears. 

199 


200  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"The  Master  says  that  'Judas  may  take  as  much 
money  as  he  pleases."  Peter  laughed  angrily.  John 
gave  him  a  quick  reproachful  glance,  and  suddenly 
flushing,  and  mingling  tears  with  anger,  and  delight 
with  tears,  loudly  exclaimed: 

"And  no  one  must  reckon  how  much  money  Judas 
receives.  He  is  our  brother,  and  all  the  money  is  as 
much  his  as  ours :  if  he  wants  much  let  him  take  much, 
without  telling  any  one,  or  taking  counsel  with  any. 
Judas  is  our  brother,  and  you  have  grievously  insulted 
him — so  says  the  Master.     Shame  on  you,  brother ! ' ' 

In  the  doorway  stood  Judas,  pale  and  with  a  dis- 
torted smile  on  his  face.  With  a  light  movement 
John  went  up  to  him  and  kissed  him  three  times. 
After  him,  glancing  round  at  one  another,  James, 
Philip  and  the  others  came  up  shamefacedly;  and 
after  each  kiss  Judas  wiped  his  mouth,  but  gave  a 
loud  smack  as  though  the  sound  afforded  him  pleas- 
ure.    Peter  came  up  last. 

"We  were  all  stupid,  all  blind,  Judas.  He  alone 
sees,  He  alone  is  wise.    May  I  kiss  you?" 

"Why  not?  Kiss  away!"  said  Judas  as  in  con- 
sent. 

Peter  kissed  him  vigorously,  and  said  aloud  in  his 
ear — 

"But  I  almost  choked  you.  The  others  kissed  you 
in  the  usual  way,  but  I  kissed  you  on  the  throat.  Did 
it  hurt  you?" 

"A  little." 

"I  will  go  and  tell  Him  all.    I  was  angry  even  with 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      ^01 

Him,"  said  Peter  sadly,  trying  noiselessly  to  open  the 
door. 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Thomas?"  asked 
John  severely.  He  it  was  who  looked  after  the  con- 
duct and  the  conversation  of  the  disciples. 

"I  don't  know  yet.    I  must  consider." 

And  Thomas  thought  long,  almost  the  whole 
day.  The  disciples  had  dispersed  to  their  occupa- 
tions, and  somewhere  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall, 
Peter  was  shouting  joyfully — but  Thomas  was  still 
considering.  He  would  have  come  to  a  decision  more 
quickly  had  not  Judas  hindered  him  somewhat  by  con- 
tinually following  him  about  with  a  mocking  glance, 
and  now  and  again  asking  him  in  a  serious  tone — 

"Well,  Thomas,  and  how  does  the  matter  pro- 
gress ? " 

Then  Judas  brought  his  money-box,  and  shaking  the 
money  and  pretending  not  to  look  at  Thomas,  began 
to  count  it — 

* '  Twenty-one,  two,  three.  .  .  .  Look,  Thomas,  a  bad 
coin  again.  Oh !  what  rascals  people  are ;  they  even 
give  bad  money  as  offerings.  Twenty-four  .  .  ,  and 
then  they  will  say  again  that  Judas  has  stolen  it  .  .  . 
twenty-five,  twenty-six.  ..." 

Thomas  approached  him  resolutely  .  .  .  for  it  was 
already  towards  evening,  and  said — 

"He  is  right,  Judas.    Let  me  kiss  you." 

"Will  you?  Twenty-nine,  thirty.  It's  no  good. 
I  shall  steal  again.     Thirty-one.  ..." 

"But  how  can  you  steal,  when  it  is  neither  yours 


20S  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

nor  another's?  You  will  simply  take  as  much  as  you 
want,  brother." 

* '  It  has  taken  you  a  long  time  to  repeat  His  words ! 
Don't  you  value  time,  you  clever  Thomas?" 

* '  You  seem  to  be  laughing  at  me,  brother. ' ' 

''And  consider,  are  you  doing  well,  my  virtuous 
Thomas,  in  repeating  His  words  ?  He  said  something 
of  His  own,  but  you  do  not.  He  really  kissed  me — 
you  only  defiled  my  mouth.  I  can  still  feel  your 
moist  lips  upon  mine.  It  was  so  disgusting,  my  good 
Thomas.  Thirty-eight,  thirty-nine,  forty.  Forty  de- 
narii.    Thomas,  won't  you  check  the  sum?" 

*  *  Certainly  He  is  our  Master.  Why  then  should  we 
not  repeat  the  words  of  our  Master?" 

"Is  Judas'  collar  torn  away?  Is  there  now  noth- 
ing to  seize  him  by?  The  Master  will  go  out  of  the 
house,  and  Judas  will  unexpectedly  steal  three  more 
de7iarii.     Won't  you  seize  him  by  the  collar?" 

"We  know  now,  Judas.    We  understand." 

"Have  not  all  pupils  a  bad  memory?  Have  not  all 
masters  been  deceived  by  their  pupils?  But  the  mas- 
ter has  only  to  lift  the  rod,  and  the  pupils  cry  out, 
'We  know.  Master!'  But  the  master  goes  to  bed,  and 
the  pupils  say:  'Did  the  Master  teach  us  this?' 
And  so,  in  this  case,  this  morning  you  called  me  a 
thief,  this  evening  you  call  me  brother.  What  will 
you  call  me  to-morrow  ? ' ' 

Judas  laughed,  and  lifting  up  the  heavy  rattling 
money-box  with  ease,  went  on: 

"When  a  strong  wind  blows  it  raises  the  dust,  and 
foolish  people  look  at  the  dust  and  say:    'Look  at  the 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      203 

wind!'  But  it  is  only  dust,  my  good  Thomas,  ass's 
dung  trodden  underfoot.  The  dust  meets  a  wall  and 
lies  down  gently  at  its  foot,  but  the  wind  flies  farther 
and  farther,  my  good  Thomas." 

Judas  obligingly  pointed  over  the  wall  in  illustra- 
tion of  his  meaning,  and  laughed  again. 

"I  am  glad  that  you  arc  merry,"  said  Thomas, 
**but  it  is  a  great  pity  that  there  is  so  much  malice  in 
your  merriment." 

''Why  should  not  a  man  be  cheerful,  who  has  been 
kissed  so  much,  and  who  is  so  useful?  If  I  had  not 
stolen  the  three  denarii  would  John  have  known  the 
meaning  of  delight?  Is  it  not  pleasant  to  be  a  hook, 
on  which  John  may  hang  his  damp  virtue  out  to  dry, 
and  Thomas  his  moth-eaten  mind?" 

"I  think  that  I  had  better  be  going." 

"But  I  am  only  joking,  my  good  Thomas.  I  merely 
wanted  to  know  whether  you  really  wished  to  kiss 
the  old  obnoxious  Judas — the  thief  who  stole  the  three 
denarii  and  gave  them  to  a  harlot." 

''To  a  harlot!"  exclaimed  Thomas  in  surprise. 
"And  did  you  tell  the  Master  of  it?" 

"Again  you  doubt,  Thomas.  Yes,  to  a  harlot. 
But  if  you  only  knew,  Thomas,  what  an  unfortunate 
woman  she  was.  For  two  days  she  had  had  nothing 
to  eat." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?"  said  Thomas  in  confusion. 

"Yes!  Of  course  I  am.  I  myself  si:)ent  two  days 
with  her,  and  saw  that  she  ate  and  drank  nothing  ex- 
cept red  wine.  She  tottered  from  exhaustion,  and  I 
was  always  falling  down  with  her." 


204.  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Thereupon  Thomas  got  up  quickly,  and,  when  he 
had  gone  a  few  steps  away,  he  flung  out  at  Judas : 

* '  You  seem  to  be  possessed  of  Satan,  Judas. ' ' 

And  as  he  went  away,  he  heard  in  the  approaching 
twilight  how  dolefully  the  heavy  money-box  rattled  in 
Judas'  hands.     And  Judas  seemed  to  laugh. 

But  the  very  next  day  Thomas  was  obliged  to  ac- 
knowledge that  he  had  misjudged  Judas,  so  simple,  so 
gentle,  and  at  the  same  time  so  serious  was  Iscariot. 
He  neither  grimaced  nor  made  ill-natured  jokes;  he 
was  neither  obsequious  nor  scurrilous,  but  quietly 
and  unobtrusively  went  about  his  work  of  catering. 
He  was  as  active  as  formerly,  as  though  he  did  not 
have  two  feet  like  other  people,  but  a  whole  dozen  of 
them,  and  ran  noiselessly  without  that  squeaking,  sob- 
bing, and  laughter  of  a  hyena,  with  which  he  for- 
merly accompanied  his  actions.  And  when  Jesus  be- 
gan to  speak,  he  would  seat  himself  (|uickly  in  a  cor- 
ner, fold  his  hands  and  feet,  and  look  so  kindly  with 
his  great  eyes,  that  many  observed  it.  He  ceased 
speaking  evil  of  people,  but  rather  remained  silent, 
so  that  even  the  severe  Matthew  deemed  it  possible  to 
praise  him,  saying  in  the  words  of  Solomon : 

*  ' '  He  that  is  devoid  of  wisdom  despiseth  his  neigh- 
bour :  but  a  man  of  understanding  holdeth  his  peace."  ' 

And  lie  lifted  up  his  hand,  hinting  thereby  at  Ju- 
das' former  evil-speaking.  In  a  short  time  all  re- 
marked this  change  in  him,  and  rejoiced  at  it:  only 
Jesus  looked  on  him  still  with  the  snme  detached  look, 
although  lie  gave  no  direct  indication  of  His  dislike. 
And  even  John,  for  whom  Judas  now  showed  a  pro- 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       205 

found  reverence,  as  the  beloved  disciple  of  Jesus,  and 
as  his  own  champion  in  the  matter  of  the  three  de- 
narii, began  to  treat  him  somewhat  more  kindly,  and 
even  sometimes  entered  into  conversation  with  him. 

' '  What  do  you  think,  Judas, ' '  said  he  one  day  in  a 
condescending  manner,  "which  of  us,  Peter  or  I,  will 
be  nearest  to  Christ  in  His  heavenly  kingdom  f ' ' 

Judas  meditated,  and  then  answered — 

"I  suppose  that  you  will." 

"But  Peter  thinks  that  he  will,"  laughed  John. 

"No!  Peter  would  scatter  all  the  angels  with  his 
shout;  you  have  heard  him  shout.  Of  course,  he  will 
quarrel  with  you,  and  will  endeavour  to  occupy  the 
first  place,  as  he  insists  that  he,  too,  loves  Jesus.  But 
he  is  already  advanced  in  years,  and  you  are  youug; 
he  is  heavy  on  his  feet,  while  you  run  swiftly;  you 
will  enter  there  first  with  Christ  ?     Will  you  not  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I  will  not  leave  Jesus,"  John  agreed. 

On  the  same  day  Simon  Peter  referred  the  very 
same  question  to  Judas.  But  fearing  that  his  loud 
voice  would  be  heard  by  the  others,  he  led  Judas  out 
to  the  farthest  corner  behind  the  house. 

"Well  then,  what  is  your  opinion  about  it?"  he 
asked  anxiously.  "You  are  wise;  even  the  ]\Iaster 
praises  you  for  your  intellect.  And  you  will  speak 
the  truth." 

"You,  of  course,"  answered  Iscariot  without  hesi- 
tation. And  Peter  exclaimed  with  indignation,  "I 
told  him  so !" 

"But,  of  course,  he  will  try  even  there  to  oust  you 
from  the  first  place." 


206  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

*' Certainly!" 

* '  But  what  can  he  do,  when  you  already  occupy  the 
place?  Won't  you  be  the  first  to  go  there  with  Je- 
sus? You  will  not  leave  Ilim  alone?  Has  He  not 
named  you  the  Rock?" 

Peter  put  his  hand  on  Judas'  shoulder,  and  said 
with  warmth:  **I  tell  you,  Judas,  you  are  the  clev- 
erest of  us  all.  But  why  are  you  so  sarcastic  and  ma- 
lignant ?  The  Master  does  not  like  it.  Otherwise  you 
might  become  the  beloved  disciple,  equally  with  John. 
But  to  you  neither, ' '  and  Peter  lifted  his  hand  threat- 
eningly, ''will  I  yield  my  place  next  to  Jesus,  neither 
on  earth,  nor  there !     Do  you  hear  ? " 

Thus  Judas  endeavoured  to  make  himself  agreeable 
to  all,  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  cherished  hidden 
thoughts  in  his  mind.  And  while  he  remained  ever 
the  same  modest,  restrained  and  unobstrusive  per- 
son, he  knew  how  to  make  some  especially  pleasing  re- 
mark to  each.     Thus  to  Thomas  he  said : 

"The  fool  believeth  every  word:  but  the  prudent 
taketh  heed  to  his  paths." 

While  to  Matthew,  who  suffered  somewhat  from  ex- 
cess in  eating  and  drinking,  and  was  ashamed  of  his 
weakness,  he  quoted  the  words  of  Solomon,  the  sage 
whom  IMatthew  held  in  high  estimation : 

"  'The  righteous  eateth  to  the  satisfying  of  his  soul: 
but  the  belly  of  the  wicked  shall  want.'  " 

But  his  pleasant  speeches  were  rare,  which  gave 
them  the  greater  value.  For  the  most  part  he  was 
silent,  listening  attentively  to  what  was  said,  and 
alwajs  meditating. 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      207 

When  reflecting,  Judas  had  an  unpleasant  look, 
ridiculous  and  at  the  same  time  awe-inspiring.  As 
long  as  his  quick,  crafty  eye  was  in  motion,  he  seemed 
simple  and  good-natured  enough,  but  directly  both 
eyes  became  fixed  in  an  immovable  stare,  and  the  skin 
on  his  protruding  forehead  gathered  into  strange 
ridges  and  creases,  a  distressing  surmise  would 
force  itself  on  one,  that  under  that  skull  some  very 
peculiar  thoughts  were  working.  So  thoroughly 
apart,  peculiar,  and  voiceless  were  the  thoughts  which 
enveloped  Iscariot  in  the  deep  silence  of  secrecy,  when 
he  was  in  one  of  his  reveries,  that  one  would  have  pre- 
ferred that  he  should  begin  to  speak,  to  move,  nay, 
even  to  tell  lies.  For  a  lie,  spoken  by  a  human  tongue, 
had  been  truth  and  light  compared  with  that  hope- 
lessly deep  and  unresponsive  silence. 

"In  the  dumps  again,  Judas?"  Peter  would  cry 
with  his  clear  voice  and  bright  smile,  suddenly  break- 
ing in  upon  the  sombre  silence  of  Judas'  thoughts, 
and  banishing  them  to  some  dark  corner.  "What  are 
you  thinking  about?" 

"Of  many  things,"  Iscariot  would  reply  with  a 
quiet  smile.  And  perceiving,  apparently,  what  a  bad 
impression  his  silence  made  upon  the  others,  he  began 
more  frequently  to  shun  the  society  of  the  disciples, 
and  spent  much  time  in  solitary  walks,  or  would 
betake  himself  to  the  flat  roof  and  there  sit  still.  And 
more  than  once  he  startled  Thomas,  who  has  un- 
expectedly stumbled  in  the  darkness  against  a  grey 
heap,  out  of  which  the  hands  and  feet  of  Judas  sud- 
denly started,  and  his  jeering  voice  was  heard. 


208  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

But  one  day,  in  a  specially  brusque  and  strange 
manner,  Judas  recalled  his  former  character.  This 
happened  on  the  occasion  of  the  quarrel  for  the  first 
place  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  Peter  and  John  were 
disputing  together,  hotly  contending  each  for  his  own 
place  nearest  to  Jesus.  They  reckoned  up  their 
services,  they  measured  the  degrees  of  their  love  for 
Jesus,  they  became  heated  and  noisy,  and  even  re- 
viled one  another  without  restraint.  Peter  roared, 
all  red  with  anger.  John  was  quiet  and  pale,  with 
trembling  hands  and  biting  speech.  Their  quarrel  had 
already  passed  the  bounds  of  decency,  and  the  Master 
had  begun  to  frown,  when  Peter  looked  up  by  chance 
on  Judas,  and  laughed  self-complacently :  John,  too, 
looked  at  Judas,  and  also  smiled.  Each  of  them  re- 
called what  the  cunning  Judas  had  said  to  him.  And 
foretasting  the  joy  of  approaching  triumph,  they, 
with  silent  consent,  invited  Judas  to  decide  the  matter. 

Peter  called  out,  "Come  now,  Judas  the  wise,  tell 
us  who  will  be  first,  nearest  to  Jesus,  he  or  I?" 

But  Judas  remained  silent,  breathing  heavily,  his 
eyes  eagerly  questioning  the  quiet,  deep  eyes  of  Je- 
sus. 

"Yes,"  John  condescendingly  repeated,  "tell  us 
who  will  be  first,  nearest  to  Jesus." 

Without  taking  his  eyes  off  Christ,  Judas  slowly 
rose,  and  answered  quietly  and  gravely: 

(IT    5> 

Jesus  let  His  gaze  fall  slowly.  And  quietly  strik- 
ing himself  on  the  breast  with  a  bony  finger,  Iscariot 
repeated  solemnly  and  sternly:     "I,  I  shall  be  near- 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      209 

est  to  Jesus ! ' '  And  he  went  out.  Struck  by  liis  in- 
solent freak,  the  disciples  remained  silent;  but  Peter 
suddenly  recalling  something,  whispered  to  Thomas  in 
an  unexpectedly  gentle  voice: 

"So  that  is  what  he  is  always  thinking  about! 
See?" 


CHAPTER  V 

JUST  at  this  time  Judas  Iscariot  took  the  first 
definite  step  towards  the  Betrayal.  He  visited 
the  chief  priest  Annas  secretly.  He  was  very 
roughly  received,  but  that  did  not  disturb  him  in  the 
least,  and  he  demanded  a  long  private  interview. 
When  he  found  himself  alone  with  the  dry,  harsh  old 
man,  who  looked  at  him  with  contempt  from  beneath 
his  heavy  overhanging  eyelids,  he  stated  that  he  was 
an  honourable  man  who  had  become  one  of  the  dis- 
ciples of  Jesus  of  Nazareth  with  the  sole  purpose  of 
exposing  the  impostor,  and  handing  Him  over  to  the 
arm  of  the  law. 

"But  who  is  this  Nazarene?"  asked  Annas  con- 
temptuously, making  as  though  he  heard  the  name 
of  Jesus  for  the  first  time. 

Judas  on  his  part  pretended  to  believe  in  the  extraor- 
dinary ignorance  of  the  chief  priest,  and  spoke  in 
detail  of  the  preaching  of  Jesus,  of  His  miracles,  of 
His  hatred  for  the  Pharisees  and  the  Temple,  of  His 
perpetual  infringement  of  the  Law,  and  eventually 
of  His  wish  to  wrest  the  power  out  of  the  hands  of 
the  priesthood,  and  to  set  up  His  own  personal  king- 
dom. And  so  cleverly  did  he  mingle  truth  with  lies, 
that  Annas  looked  at  him  more  attentively,  and  lazily 

210 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      211 

remarked:  "There  are  plenty  of  impostors  and  mad- 
men in  Judah. " 

"No!  He  is  a  dangerous  person,"  Judas  hotly 
contradicted.  "He  breaks  the  law.  And  it  were 
better  that  one  man  should  perish,  r^tther  than  the 
whole  people." 

Annas,  with  an  approving  nod,  said — 

"But  He,  apparently,  has  many  disciples." 

"Yes,  many." 

"And  they,  it  seems  probable,  have  a  great  love 
for  Him?" 

' '  Yes,  they  say  that  they  love  Him,  love  Him  much, 
more  than  themselves." 

"But  if  we  try  to  take  Him,  will  they  not  defend 
Him?     Will  they  not  raise  a  tumult?" 

Judas  laughed  long  and  maliciously.  *  *  What,  they  ? 
Those  cowardly  dogs,  who  run  if  a  man  but  stoop 
down  to  pick  up  a  stone.     They  indeed!" 

"Are  they  really  so  bad?"  asked  Annas  coldly. 

"But  surely  it  is  not  the  bad  who  flee  from  the 
good ;  is  it  not  rather  the  good  who  flee  from  the  bad  ? 
Ha!  ha!  They  are  good,  and  therefore  they  flee. 
They  are  good,  and  therefore  they  hide  themselves. 
They  are  good,  and  therefore  they  will  appear  only 
in  time  to  bury  Jesus.  They  will  lay  Him  in  the 
tomb  themselves;  you  have  only  to  execute  Him." 

"But  surely  they  love  Him?  You  yourself  said 
so." 

"People  always  love  their  teacher,  but  better  dead 
than  alive.  While  a  teacher's  alive  he  may  ask  them 
questions  which  they   will  find  difficult  to  answer. 


212  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

But,  when  a  teacher  dies,  they  become  teachers  them- 
selves, and  then  others  fare  badly  in  turn.     Ha!  ha!" 

Annas  looked  piercingly  at  the  Traitor,  and  his  lips 
puckered — which  indicated  that  he  was  smiling. 

"You  have  been  insulted  by  them.     I  can  see  that." 

"Can  one  hide  anything  from  the  perspicacity  of 
the  astute  Annas?  You  have  pierced  to  the  very 
heart  of  Judas,  Yes,  they  insulted  poor  Judas. 
They  said  he  had  stolen  from  them  three  denarii — as 
though  Judas  were  not  the  most  honest  man  in  Is- 
rael!" 

They  talked  for  some  time  longer  about  Jesus,  and 
His  disciples,  and  of  His  pernicious  influence  on  the 
people  of  Israel,  but  on  this  occasion  the  crafty,  cau- 
tious Annas  gave  no  decisive  answer.  He  had  long 
had  his  eyes  on  Jesus,  and  in  secret  conclave  with  his 
own  relatives  and  friends,  with  the  authorities,  and 
the  Sadducees,  had  decided  the  fate  of  the  Prophet 
of  Galilee.  But  he  did  not  trust  Judas,  who  he 
had  heard  was  a  bad,  untruthful  man,  and  he  had 
no  confidence  in  his  flippant  faith  in  the  cowardice 
of  the  disciples,  and  of  the  people.  Annas  believed 
in  his  own  power,  but  he  feared  bloodshed,  feared  a 
serious  riot,  such  as  the  insubordinate,  irascible  people 
of  Jerusalem  lent  itself  to  so  easily;  he  feared,  in 
fact,  the  violent  intervention  of  the  Eoman  author- 
ities. Fanned  by  opposition,  fertilised  by  the  red 
blood  of  the  people,  w^hich  vivifies  everything  on  which 
it  falls,  the  heresy  w^ould  grow  stronger,  and  stifle  in 
its  folds  Annas,  the  government,  and  all  his  friends. 
So,  when  Iscariot  knocked  at  his  door  a  second  time 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      213 

Annas  was  perturbed  in  spirit  and  would  not  admit 
him.  But  yet  a  third  and  a  fourth  time  Iscariot  came 
to  him,  persistent  as  the  wind,  which  beats  day  and 
night  against  the  closed  door  and  blows  in  through 
its  crevices. 

"I  see  that  the  most  astute  Annas  is  afraid  of 
something,"  said  Judas  when  at  last  he  obtained  ad- 
mission to  the  high  priest. 

"I  am  strong  enough  not  to  fear  anything,"  Annas 
answered  haughtily.  And  Iscariot  stretched  forth 
his  hands  and  bowed  abjectly. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"I  wish  to  betray  the  Nazarene  to  you." 

"We  do  not  want  Him." 

Judas  bowed  and  waited,  humbly  fixing  his  gaze 
on  the  high  priest. 

"Go  away." 

"But  I  am  bound  to  return.  Am  I  not,  revered 
Annas?" 

"You  will  not  be  admitted.     Go  away!" 

But  yet  again  and  again  Judas  called  on  the  aged 
Annas,  and  at  last  was  admitted. 

Dry  and  malicious,  worried  with  thought,  and  si- 
lent, he  gazed  on  the  Traitor,  and,  as  it  were,  counted 
the  hairs  on  his  knotted  head.  Judas  also  said  noth- 
ing, and  seemed  in  his  turn  to  be  counting  the  some- 
^^■hat  sparse  grey  hairs  in  the  beard  of  the  high  priest. 

"What?  you  here  again?"  the  irritated  Annas 
haughtily  jerked  out,  as  though  spitting  upon  his 
head. 

"I  wish  to  betray  the  Nazarene  to  you." 


214  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

Both  held  their  peace,  and  continued  to  gaze  at- 
tentively at  each  other.  Iscariot's  look  was  calm; 
but  a  quiet  malice,  dry  and  cold,  began  slightly  to 
prick  Annas,  like  the  early  morning  rime  of  winter. 

''How  much  do  you  want  for  your  Jesus?" 

"How  much  will  you  give?" 

Annas,  with  evident  enjoyment,  insultingly  replied : 
**You  are  nothing  but  a  band  of  scoundrels.  Thirty 
pieces — that 's  what  we  will  give. '  * 

And  he  quietly  rejoiced  to  see  how  Judas  began  to 
squirm  and  run  about — agile  and  swift  as  though  he 
had  a  whole  dozen  feet,  not  two. 

"Thirty  pieces  of  silver  for  Jesus!"  he  cried  in 
a  voice  of  wild  madness,  most  pleasing  to  Annas. 
"For  Jesus  of  Nazareth!  You  wish  to  buy  Jesus  for 
thirty  pieces  of  silver?  And  you  think  that  Jesus  can 
be  betrayed  to  you  for  thirty  pieces  of  silver?" 
Judas  turned  quickly  to  the  wall,  and  laughed  in  its 
smooth,  white  fence,  lifting  up  his  long  hands.  "Do 
you  hear?     Thirty  pieces  of  silver!     For  Jesus!" 

"With  the  same  quiet  pleasure,  Annas  remarked 
indifferently : 

"If  you  will  not  deal,  go  away.  We  shall  find 
some  one  whose  work  is  cheaper." 

And  like  old-clothes  men  who  throw  useless  rags 
from  hand  to  hand  in  the  dirty  market-place,  and 
shout,  and  swear  and  abuse  each  other,  so  they  em- 
barked on  a  rabid  and  fiery  bargaining.  Intoxicated 
with  a  strange  rapture,  running  and  turning  about, 
and  shouting,  Judas  ticked  off  on  his  fingers  the  merits 
of  Him  whom  he  was  selling. 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       215 

**And  the  fact  that  He  is  kind  and  heals  the  sick, 
is  that  worth  nothing  at  all  in  your  opinion?  Ah, 
yes !     Tell  me,  like  an  honest  man ! '  * 

**If  you — "  began  Annas,  who  was  turning  red,  as 
he  tried  to  get  in  a  word,  his  cold  malice  quickly  warm- 
ing up  under  the  burning  words  of  Judas,  who,  how- 
ever, interrupted  him  shamelessly : 

"That  He  is  young  and  handsome — like  the  Nar- 
cissus of  Sharon,  and  the  Lily  of  the  Valley  ?  "What  ? 
Is  that  worth  nothing?  Perhaps  you  will  say  that 
He  is  old  and  useless,  and  that  Judas  is  trying  to 
dispose  of  an  old  bird?     Eh?" 

"If  you — "  Annas  tried  to  exclaim;  but  Judas' 
stormy  speech  bore  away  his  senile  croak,  like  down 
upon  the  wind. 

"Thirty  pieces  of  silver!  That  will  hardly  work 
out  to  one  oholus  for  each  drop  of  blood !  Half  an 
obolus  will  not  go  to  a  tear!  A  quarter  to  a  groan. 
And  cries,  and  convulsions!  And  for  the  ceasing  of 
His  heartbeats  ?  And  the  closing  of  His  eyes  ?  Is  all 
this  to  be  thrown  in  gratis?"  sobbed  Iscariot,  advanc- 
ing toward  the  high  priest  and  enveloping  him  with 
an  insane  movement  of  his  hands  and  fingers,  and 
with  intervolved  words. 

"Includes  everything,"  said  Annas  in  a  choking 
voice. 

"And  how  much  will  you  make  out  of  it  yourself? 
Eh?  You  wish  to  rob  Judas,  to  snatch  the  bit  of 
bread  from  his  children.  No,  I  can't  do  it.  I  will 
go  on  to  the  market-place,  and  shout  out:  'Annas  has 
robbed  poor  Judas.     Help ! ' ' 


216  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"Wearied,  and  grown  quite  dizzy,  Annas  wildly 
stamped  about  the  floor  in  his  soft  slippers,  gesticulat- 
ing: "Be  off,  be  off!" 

But  Judas  on  a  sudden  bowed  down,  stretching 
forth  his  hands  submissively : 

"But  if  you  really.  .  .  .  But  why  be  angry  with 
poor  Judas,  who  only  desires  his  children's  good. 
You  also  have  children,  young  and  handsome." 

"We  shall  find  some  one  else.    Be  gone!" 

"But  I — I  did  not  say  that  I  was  unwilling  to  make 
a  reduction.  Did  I  ever  say  that  I  could  not  to 
yield?  And  do  I  not  believe  you,  that  possibly  an- 
other may  come  and  sell  Jesus  to  you  for  fifteen  oholi 
— nay,  for  two — for  one?" 

And  bowing  lower  and  lower,  wriggling  and  flat- 
tering, Judas  submissively  consented  to  the  sum 
offered  to  him.  Annas  shamefacedly,  with  dry, 
trembling  hand,  paid  him  the  money,  and  silently  look- 
ing round,  as  though  scorched,  lifted  his  head  again 
and  again  towards  the  ceiling,  and  moving  his  lips 
rapidly,  waited  while  Judas  tested  with  his  teeth  all 
the  silver  pieces,  one  after  another. 

"There  is  now  so  much  bad  money  about,"  Judas 
quickly  explained. 

"This  money  was  devoted  to  the  Temple  by  the 
pious,"  said  Annas,  glancing  round  qnickiy,  and  still 
more  quickly  turning  the  ruddy  bald  nape  of  his  neck 
to  Judas'  view. 

"But  can  pious  people  distinguish  between  good 
and  bad  money!     Only  rascals  can  do  that." 

Judas  did  not  take  the  money  home,  but  went  be- 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      217 

yond  the  city  and  hid  it  under  a  stone.  Then  he 
came  back  again  quietly  with  heavy,  dragging  steps, 
as  a  wounded  animal  creeps  slowly  to  its  lair  after  a 
severe  and  deadly  fight.  Only  Judas  had  no  lair; 
but  there  was  a  house,  and  in  the  house  he  perceived 
Jesus.  Weary  and  thin,  exhausted  with  continual 
strife  with  the  Pharisees,  who  surrounded  Him  every 
day  in  the  Temple  with  a  wall  of  white,  shining,  schol- 
arly foreheads,  He  was  sitting,  leaning  His  cheek 
against  the  rough  wall,  apparently  fast  asleep. 
Through  the  open  window  drifted  the  restless  noises 
of  the  city.  On  the  other  side  of  the  wall  Peter  was 
hammering,  as  he  put  together  a  new  table  for  the 
meal,  humming  the  while  a  quiet  Galilean  song.  But 
He  heard  nothing ;  he  slept  on  peacefully  and  soundly. 
And  this  was  He,  whom  they  had  bought  for  thirty 
pieces  of  silver. 

Coming  forward  noiselessly,  Judas,  with  the  tender 
touch  of  a  mother,  who  fears  to  wake  her  sick  child 
— with  the  wonderment  of  a  wild  beast  as  it  creeps 
from  its  lair  suddenly,  charmed  by  the  sight  of  a 
white  fiowerlet — he  gently  touched  His  soft  locks,  and 
then  quickly  withdrew  his  hand.  Once  more  he 
touched  Him,  and  then  silently  crept  out. 

"Lord!     Lord!"  said  he. 

And  going  apart,  he  wept  long,  shrinking  and 
wriggling  and  scratching  his  bosom  with  his  nails 
and  gnawing  his  shoulders.  Then  suddenly  he  ceased 
weeping  and  gnawing  and  gnashing  his  teeth,  and  fell 
into  a  sombre  reverie,  inclining  his  tear-stained  face 
to  one  side  in  the  attitude  of  one  listening.     And  so 


218  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

he  remained  for  a  long  time,  doleful,  determined,  from 
every  one  apart,  like  fate  itself. 

Judas  surrounded  the  unhappy  Jesus,  during  those 
last  days  of  His  short  life,  with  quiet  love  and  tender 
care  and  caresses.  Bashful  and  timid  like  a  maid  in 
her  first  love,  strangely  sensitive  and  discerning,  he 
divined  the  minutest  unspoken  wishes  of  Jesus,  pene- 
trating to  the  hidden  depth  of  His  feelings,  His  pass- 
ing fits  of  sorrow,  and  distressing  moments  of  weari- 
ness. And  wherever  Jesus  stepped.  His  foot  met 
something  soft,  and  whenever  He  turned  His  gaze, 
it  encountered  something  pleasing.  Formerly  Judas 
had  not  liked  Mary  Magdalene  and  the  other  women 
who  were  near  Jesus.  He  had  made  rude  jests  at 
their  expense,  and  done  them  little  unkindnesses. 
But  now  he  became  their  friend,  their  strange,  awk- 
ward ally,  With  deep  interest  he  would  talk  with 
them  of  the  charming  little  idiosyncrasies  of  Jesus, 
and  persistently  asking  the  same  questions,  he  would 
thrust  money  into  their  hands,  their  very  palms — and 
they  brought  a  box  of  very  precious  ointment,  which 
Jesus  liked  so  much,  and  anointed  His  feet.  He  him- 
self bought  for  Jesus,  after  desperate  bargaining,  an 
expensive  wine,  and  then  was  very  angry  when  Peter 
drank  nearly  all  of  it  up,  with  the  indifference  of  a  per- 
son M'ho  looks  only  to  quantity;  and  in  that  rocky 
'Jerusalem  almost  devoid  of  trees,  flowers,  and  green- 
ery he  somehow  managed  to  obtain  young  spring 
flowers  and  green  grass,  and  through  these  same 
women  to  give  them  to  Jesus. 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      219 

For  the  lirst  time  in  his  life  he  would  take  up  little 
children  in  his  arms,  finding  them  somewhere  about 
the  courts  and  streets,  and  unwillingly  kiss  theui  to 
prevent  their  crying ;  and  often  it  would  happen  that 
some  swarthy  urchin  with  curly  hair  and  dirty  little 
nose,  would  climb  up  on  the  knees  of  the  pensive  Je- 
sus, and  imperiously  demand  to  be  petted.  And  while 
they  enjoyed  themselves  together,  Judas  would  walk 
up  and  down  at  one  side  like  a  severe  jailor,  who  had 
himself,  in  springtime,  let  a  butterfly  in  to  a  prisoner, 
and  pretends  to  grumble  at  the  breach  of  discipline. 

On  an  evening,  when  together  -with  the  darkness, 
alarm  took  post  as  sentry  by  the  window,  Iscariot 
would  cleverly  turn  the  conversation  to  Galilee, 
strange  to  himself  but  dear  to  Jesus,  with  its  still 
waters  and  green  banks.  And  he  would  jog  the  heavy 
Peter  till  his  dulled  memory  awoke,  and  in  clear  pic- 
tures in  which  everything  was  loud,  distinct,  full  of 
colour,  and  solid,  there  arose  before  his  eyes  and  ears 
the  dear  Galilean  life.  With  eager  attention,  with 
half-open  mouth  in  child-like  fashion,  and  with  eyes 
laughing  in  anticipation,  'Jesus  would  listen  to  his 
gusty,  resonant,  cheerful  utterance,  and  sometimes 
laughed  so  at  his  jokes,  that  it  was  necessary  to  inter- 
rupt the  story  for  some  minutes.  But  John  told  tales 
even  better  than  Peter.  There  was  nothing  ludicrous, 
nor  startling,  about  his  stories,  but  everything  seemed 
so  pensive,  unusual,  and  beautiful,  that  tears  would 
appear  in  Jesus '  eyes,  and  He  would  sigh  softly,  while 
Judas  nudged  Mary  Magdalene  and  excitedly  whis- 
pered to  her — 


220  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"What  a  narrator  lie  is!    Do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,  certainly." 

"No,  be  more  attentive.  You  women  never  make 
good  listeners." 

Then  they  would  all  quietly  disperse  to  bed,  and 
Jesus  would  kiss  His  thanks  to  John,  and  stroke  kindly 
the  shoulder  of  the  tall  Peter. 

And  without  envy,  but  with  a  condescending  con- 
tempt, Judas  would  witness  these  caresses.  Of  what 
importance  were  these  tales  and  kisses  and  sighs 
compared  with  what  he,  Judas  Iscariot,  the  red-haired, 
misshapen  Judas,  begotten  among  the  rocks,  could  tell 
them  if  he  chose  ? 


CHAPTER  VI 

WITH  one  hand  betraying  Jesus,  Judas 
tried  hard  with  the  other  to  frustrate  his 
own  plans.  He  did  not  indeed  endeavour 
to  dissuade  Jesus  from  the  last  dangerous  journey- 
to  Jerusalem,  as  did  the  women;  he  even  inclined 
rather  to  the  side  of  the  relatives  of  Jesus,  and  of 
those  amongst  His  disciples  who  looked  for  a  victory 
over  Jerusalem  as  indispensable  to  the  full  triumph 
of  His  cause.  But  he  kept  continually  and  obsti- 
nately warning  them  of  the  danger,  and  in  lively 
colours  depicted  the  threatening  hatred  of  the  Phari- 
sees for  Jesus,  and  their  readiness  to  commit  any  crime 
if,  either  secretly  or  openly,  they  might  make  an  end 
of  the  Prophet  of  Galilee.  Each  day  and  every  hour 
he  kept  talking  of  this,  and  there  was  not  one  of  the 
believers  before  whom  Judas  had  not  stood  wdth  up- 
lifted finger  and  uttered  this  serious  warning : 

*'We  must  look  after  Jesus.  We  must  defend  for 
Jesus,  when  the  hour  comes." 

But  whether  it  was  the  unlimited  faith  which  the 
disciples  had  in  the  miracle-working  power  of  their 
]\Iaster,  or  the  consciousness  of  their  own  uprightness, 
or  whether  it  was  siinply  blindness,  the  alarming 
words  of  Judas  were  met  with  a  smile,  and  his  con- 
tinual advice  provoked  only  a  grumble.    When  Judas 

221 


222  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

procured,  somewhere  or  other,  two  swords,  and 
brought  them,  only  Peter  approved  of  thera,  and  gave 
Judas  his  meed  of  praise,  while  the  others  com- 
plained : 

"Are  we  soldiers  that  we  should  be  made  to  gird 
on  swords?  Is  Jesus  a  captain  of  the  host,  and  not 
a  prophet?" 

"But  if  they  attempt  to  kill  Him?" 

"They  will  not  dare  when  they  perceive  how  all 
the  people  follow  Him." 

' '  But  if  they  should  dare !     What  then  ? ' ' 

John  replied  disdainfully — 

"One  would  think,  Judas,  that  you  were  the  only 
one  who  loved  Jesus!" 

And  eagerly  seizing  hold  of  these  words,  and  not 
in  the  least  offended,  Judas  began  to  question  im- 
patiently and  hotly,  with  stern  insistency: 

"But  you  love  Him,  don't  you?" 

And  there  was  not  one  of  the  believers  who  came 
to  Jesus  whom  he  did  not  ask  more  than  once:  "Do 
you  love  Him?     Dearly  love  Him?" 

And  all  answered  that  they  loved  Him. 

He  used  often  to  converse  with  Thomas,  and  hold- 
ing up  his  dry,  hooked  forefinger,  with  its  long,  dirty 
nail,  in  warning,  would  mysteriousl}-  say: 

"Look  here,  Thomas,  the  terrible  hour  is  drawing 
near.  Are  you  prepared  for  it?  AVhy  did  you  not 
take  the  sword  I  brought  you  ? ' ' 

Thomas  would  reply  with  deliberation : 

"We  are  men  unaccustomed  to  the  use  of  arms. 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      223 

If  we  were  to  take  issue  with  the  Roman  soldiery,  they 
would  kill  us  all,  one  after  the  other.  Besides,  you 
brought  only  two  swords,  and  what  could  we  do  with 
only  two?" 

"We  could  get  more.  We  could  take  them  from 
the  Roman  soldiers,"  Judas  impatiently  objected,  and 
even  the  serious  Thomas  smiled  through  his  overhang- 
ing moustache. 

''Ah!  Judas!  Judas!  But  where  did  you  get 
these?     They  are  like  Roman  swords." 

"I  stole  them.  I  could  have  stolen  more,  only  some 
one  gave  the  alarm,  and  I  fled." 

Thomas  considered  a  little,  then  said  sorrowfully — 
* '  Again  you  acted  ill,  Judas.  Why  do  you  steal  ? ' ' 
''There  is  no  such  thing  as  property." 
"No,  but  to-morrow  they  will  ask  the  soldiers: 
'Where  are  your  swords?'  And  when  they  cannot 
find  them  they  will  be  punished  though  innocent." 

The  consequence  was,  that  after  the  death  of  Jesus 
the  disciples  recalled  these  conversations  of  Judas, 
and  determined  that  he  had  wished  to  destroy  them, 
together  with  the  Master,  by  inveigling  them  into  an 
unequal  and  murderous  conflict.  And  once  again 
they  cursed  the  hated  name  of  'Judas  Iscariot  the 
Traitor. 

But  the  angry  Judas,  after  each  conversation,  would 
go  to  the  women  and  weep.  They  heard  him  gladly. 
The  tender  womanly  element,  that  there  was  in  his 
love  for  Jesus,  drew  him  near  to  them,  and  made  him 
simple,  comprehensible,  and  even  handsome  in  their 


224  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

eyes,  although,  as  before,  a  certain  amount  of  disdain 
was  perceptible  in  his  attitude  towards  them. 

"Are  they  men?"  he  would  bitterly  complain  of 
the  disciples,  fixing  his  blind,  motionless  eye  confid- 
ingly on  Mary  Magdalene.  "They  are  not  men. 
They  have  not  an  oholes'  worth  of  blood  in  their 
veins ! ' ' 

"But  then  you  are  always  speaking  ill  of  others," 
Mary  objected. 

' '  Have  1  ever  ? ' '  said  Judas  in  surprise.  ' '  Oh,  yes, 
I  have  indeed  spoken  ill  of  them;  but  is  there  not 
room  for  improvement  in  them  ?  Ah !  Mary,  silly 
Mary,  why  are  you  not  a  man,  to  carry  a  sword  ? ' ' 

"It  is  so  heavy,  I  could  not  lift  it!"  said  Mary 
smilingly. 

"But  you  will  lift  it,  when  men  are  too  worthless. 
Did  you  give  Jesus  the  lily  that  I  found  on  the  moun- 
tain ?  I  got  up  early  to  find  it,  and  this  morning  the 
sun  was  so  beautiful,  Mary!  Was  He  pleased  with 
it?    Did  He  smile?" 

"Yes,  He  was  pleased.  He  said  that  its  smell  re- 
minded Him  of  Galilee." 

' '  But  surely,  you  did  not  tell  Him  that  it  was  Judas 
— Judas  Iscariot — who  got  it  for  Him?" 

"Why<  you  asked  me  not  to  tell  Him." 

"Yes,  certainly,  quite  right,"  said  Judas,  with  a 
sigh.  "You  might  have  let  it  out,  though,  women 
are  such  chatterers.  But  you  did  not  let  it  out;  no, 
you  were  firm.  You  are  a  good  woman,  Mary.  You 
know  that  I  have  a  wife  somewhere.  Now  I  should 
be  glad  to  see  her  again;  perhaps  she  is  not  a  bad 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       225 

woman  either.  I  don't  know.  She  said,  'Judas  was 
a  liar  and  malignant,'  so  I  left  her.  But  she  may  be 
a  good  woman.     Do  3'ou  know?" 

''How  should  I  know,  when  I  have  never  seen  your 
wife?" 

"True,  true,  Mary !  But  what  think  you,  are  thirty 
pieces  of  silver  a  large  sum  ?  Is  it  not  rather  a  small 
one?" 

"I  should  say  a  small  one." 

"Certainly,  certainly.  How  much  did  you  get 
when  you  were  a  harlot,  five  pieces  of  silver  or  ten? 
You  were  an  expensive  one,  were  you  not?" 

Mary  IMagdalene  blushed,  and  dropped  her  head 
till  her  luxuriant,  golden  hair  completely  covered  her 
face,  so  that  nothing  but  her  round  white  chin  was 
visible. 

"How  bad  you  are,  Judas;  I  want  to  forget  about 
that,  and  you  remind  me  of  it ! " 

"No,  Mary,  you  must  not  forget  that.  "Why  should 
you?  Let  others  forget  that  you  were  a  harlot,  but 
you  must  remember.  It  is  the  others  who  should 
forget  as  soon  as  possible,  but  you  should  not.  Why 
should  you?" 

"But  it  was  a  sin!" 

"He  fears  who  never  committed  a  sin,  but  he  who 
has  committed  it,  what  has- he  to  fear?  Do  the  dead 
fear  death;  is  it  not  rather  the  living?  No,  the  dead 
laugh  at  the  living  and  their  fears." 

Thus  by  the  hour  would  they  sit  and  talk  in  friendly 
guise,  he — already  old,  dried-up  and  misshapen,  witli 
his   bulbous   head   and   monstrous   donble-sided   face: 


226  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

she — ^young,  modest,  tender,  and  charmed  with  life  as 
with  a  story  or  a  dream. 

But  time  rolled  by  unconcernedly,  while  the  thirty 
pieces  of  silver  lay  under  the  stone,  and  the  terrible 
day  of  the  Betrayal  drew  inevitably  near.  Already 
Jesus  had  ridden  into  Jerusalem  on  the  ass's  back, 
and  the  people,  strewing  their  garments  in  the  way, 
had  greeted  Him  with  enthusiastic  cries  of  ''Hosanna! 
Hosanna !     He  that  cometh  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  !" 

So  great  was  the  exultation,  so  unrestrainedly  did 
their  loving  cries  rend  the  skies,  that  Jesus  wept,  but 
His  disciples  proudly  said  : 

"Is  not  this  the  Son  of  God  with  us?" 

And  they  themselves  cried  out  with  enthusiasm: 
"Hosanna!  Hosanna!  He  that  cometh  in  the  name 
of  the  Lord!" 

That  evening  it  was  long  before  they  went  to  bed, 
recalling  the  enthusiastic  and  joyful  reception. 
Peter  was  like  a  madman,  as  though  possessed  by  the 
demon  of  merriment  and  pride.  He  shouted,  drown- 
ing all  voices  with  his  leonine  roar;  he  laughed,  hurl- 
ing his  laughter  at  their  heads,  like  great  round  stones ; 
he  kept  kissing  John  and  James,  and  even  gave  a  kiss 
to  Judas.  He  noisily  confessed  tliat  he  had  had  great 
fears  for  Jesus,  but  that  he  feared  nothing  now,  that 
he  had  seen  the  love  of  the  people  for  Him. 

Swiftly  moving  his  vivid,  watchful  eye,  Judas 
glanced  in  surprise  from  side  to  side.  He  meditated, 
and  then  again  listened,  and  looked.  Then  he  took 
Thomas  aside,  and  pinning  him,  as  it  were,  to  the 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      227 

wall  with  liis  keen  gaze,  lie  asked  in  doubt  and  fear, 
but  with  a  certain  confused  liopefulness : 

"Thomas!  But  what  if  He  is  right?  What  if  He 
be  founded  upon  a  rock,  and  we  upon  sand?  What 
then?" 

* '  Of  whom  are  you  speaking  ? " 

"How,  then;  would  it  be  with  Judas  Iscariot? 
Then  I  should  be  obliged  to  strangle  Him  in  order 
to  do  right.  Who  is  deceiving  Judas?  You  or  he 
himself?     Who  is  deceiving  Judas?     Who?" 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Judas.  You  speak  very 
unintelligently.  'Who  is  deceiving  Jesus?'  'Who  is 
right?'  " 

And  Judas  nodded  his  head  and  repeated  like  an 
echo: 

"Who  is  deceiving  Judas?     Who?" 

And  the  next  day,  in  the  way  in  which  Judas  raised 
his  hand  with  thumb  bent  baek,^  and  bj^  the  way  in 
which  he  looked  at  Thomas,  the  same  strange  ques- 
tion was  implied: 

' '  Who  is  deceiving  Judas  ?     Wlio  is  right  ? ' ' 

And  still  more  surprised,  and  even  alarmed,  was 
Thomas,  when  suddenly  in  the  night  he  heard  the 
loud,  apparently  glad  voice  of  Judas: 

"Then  Judas  Iscariot  will  be  no  more.  Then  Jesus 
will  be  no  more.  Then  there  will  be  Thomas,  the 
stupid  Tliomas !  Did  you  ever  wish  to  take  the  earth 
and  lift  it?     And  then,  possibly  hurl  it  away?" 

1  Does  our  author  refer  to  the  Roman  sign  of  disapprobation, 
vertere,  or  convertere,  poUicem? — Tr. 


228  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"That's  impossible.  What  are  you  talking  about, 
Judas?" 

"It's  quite  possible,"  said  Iscariot  with  convic- 
tion, "and  we  will  lift  it  up  some  day  when  you  are 
asleep,  stupid  Thomas.  Go  to  sleep.  I'm  enjoying 
myself.  When  you  sleep  your  nose  plays  the  Gali- 
lean pipe     Sleep!" 

But  now  the  believers  were  already  dispersed  about 
Jerusalem,  hiding  in  houses  and  behind  walls,  and 
the  faces  of  those  that  met  them  looked  mysterious. 
The  exultation  had  died  down.  Confused  reports  of 
danger  found  their  way  in ;  Peter,  with  gloomy  coun- 
tenance, tested  the  sword  given  to  him  by  Judas,  and 
the  face  of  the  Master  became  even  more  melancholy 
and  stern.  So  swiftly  the  time  passed,  and  inevitably 
approached  the  terrible  day  of  the  Betrayal.  Lo !  the 
Last  Supper  was  over,  full  of  grief  and  confused 
dread,  and  already  had  the  obscure  words  of  Jesus 
sounded  concerning  some  one  who  should  betraj'  Him. 

"You  know  who  will  betraj^  II im?"  asked  Thomas, 
looking  at  Judas  with  his  straight-forward,  clear,  al- 
most transparent  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Judas  replied  harshly  and  decid- 
edly. "You,  Thomas,  will  betray  Ilim.  But  He 
Himself  does  not  believe  what  He  says!  It  is  full 
time!  Why  does  He  not  call  to  Him  the  strong, 
magnificent  Judas?" 

No  longer  by  days,  but  by  short,  fleeting  hours,  was 
tlie  inevitable  time  to  be  measured.  It  was  evening: 
and  evening  stillness  and  long  shadows  lay  upon  the 
ground — tlie  first  sharp  darts  of  the  comijig  night  of 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      229 

mighty  contest — when  a  harsh,  sorrowful  voice  was 
heard.     It  said: 

"Dost  Thou  know  Whither  I  go,  Lord?  I  go  to 
betray  Thee  into  the  hands  of  Thine  enemies." 

And  there  was  a  long  silence,  evening  stillness,  and 
swift  black  shadows. 

"Thou  art  silent,  Lord?  Thou  commandest  me  to 
go?" 

And  again  silence. 

"Allow  me  to  remain.  But  perhaps  Thou  canst 
not  ?     Or  darest  not  ?     Or  wilt  not  ? ' ' 

And  again  silence,  stupendous,  like  the  eyes  of 
eternity. 

"But  indeed  Thou  knowest  that  I  love  Thee.  Thou 
knowest  all  things.  "Why  lookest  Thou  thus  at  Judas? 
Great  is  the  mystery  of  Thy  beautiful  eyes,  but  is 
mine  less  ?  Order  me  to  remain !  But  Thou  art  si- 
lent. Thou  art  ever  silent.  Lord,  Lord,  is  it  for  this 
that  in  grief  and  pains  have  I  sought  Thee  all  my  life, 
sought  and  found !  Free  me !  Remove  the  weight ; 
it  is  heavier  than  even  mountains  of  lead.  Dost  Thou 
hear  how  the  bosom  of  Judas  Iscariot  is  cracking 
under  it?" 

And  the  last  silence  was  abysmal,  like  the  last 
glance  of  eternity. 

"I  go." 

But  the  evening  stillness  woke  not,  neither  ut- 
tered cry  nor  plaint,  nor  did  its  subtle  air  vibrate 
with  the  slightest  tinkle — so  soft  was  the  fall  of  the 
retreating  steps.  They  sounded  for  a  time,  and  then 
were  silent.     And  the  evening  stillness  became  pen- 


230  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

sive,  stretched  itself  out  in  long  shadows,  and  then 
grew  dark; — and  suddenly  night,  coming  to  meet  it, 
all  atremble  with  the  rustle  of  sadly  brushed-up  leaves, 
heaved  a  last  sigh  and  was  still. 

Tliere  was  a  bustle,  a  jostle,  a  rattle  of  other  voices, 
as  though  some  one  had  untied  a  bag  of  lively  resonant 
voices,  and  they  were  falling  out  on  the  ground, 
by  one  and  two,  and  whole  heaps.  It  was  the  disciples 
talking.  And  drowning  them  all,  reverberating  from 
the  treees  and  walls,  and  tripping  up  over  it^jelf, 
thundered  the  determined,  powerful  voice  of  Peter — 
he  was  swearing  tliat  never  would  he  desert  his  Master. 

"Lord,"  said  he,  half  in  anger,  half  in  grief: 
' '  Lord !  I  am  ready  to  go  with  Thee  to  prison  and 
to  death." 

And  quietly,  like  the  soft  echo  of  retiring  footsteps, 
came  the  inexorable  answer : 

"I  tell  thee,  Peter,  the  cock  will  not  crow  this  day 
before  thou  dost  deny  Me  thrice." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  moon  had  already  risen  when  Jesus  pre- 
pared to  go  to  the  Mount  of  Olives,  where 
He  had  spent  all  His  last  nights.  But  He 
tarried,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  and  the  disciples, 
ready  to  start,  were  hurrying  Him.  Then  He  said 
suddenly : 

' '  He  that  hath  a  purse,  let  him  take  it,  and  likewise 
his  scrip ;  and  he  that  hath  no  sword,  let  him  sell  his 
garment  and  buy  one.  For  I  say  unto  you  that  this 
that  is  written  must  yet  be  accomplished  in  me : 
'And  he  was  reckoned  among  the  transgressors."  ' 

The  disciples  were  surprised  and  looked  at  one  an- 
other in  confusion.     Peter  replied : 

"Lord,  we  have  two  swords  here." 

He  looked  searchingly  into  their  kind  faces,  lowered 
His  head,  and  said  softly : 

"It  is  enough." 

The  steps  of  the  disciples  resounded  loudly  in  the 
narrow  streets,  and  they  were  frightened  by  the  sounds 
of  their  own  footsteps;  on  the  white  wall,  illumined 
by  the  moon,  their  black  shadows  appeared — and  they 
were  frightened  by  their  own  shadows.  Thus  they 
passed  in  silence  through  Jerusalem,  which  was 
absorbed  in  sleep,  and  now  they  came  out  of  the 
gates  of  the  city,  and  in  the  valley,  full  of  fantastic, 

231 


232  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

motionless  shadows,  the  stream  of  Kedron  stretched 
before  them.  Now  they  were  frightened  by  every- 
thing. The  soft  murmuring  and  splashing  of  the 
water  on  the  stones  sounded  to  them  like  voices  of 
people  approaching  them  stealthily;  the  monstrous 
shades  of  the  rocks  and  the  trees,  obstructing  the  road, 
disturbed  them,  and  their  motionlessness  seemed  to 
them  to  stir.  But  as  they  were  ascending  the  moun- 
tain and  approaching  the  garden,  where  they  had 
safely  and  quietly  passed  so  many  nights  before,  they 
were  growing  ever  bolder.  From  time  to  time  they 
looked  back  at  Jerusalem,  all  white  in  the  moonlight, 
and  they  spoke  to  one  another  about  the  fear  that  had 
passed;  and  those  who  walked  in  the  rear  heard,  in 
fragments,  the  soft  words  of  Jesus.  lie  spoke  about 
their  forsaking  Him. 

In  the  garden  they  paused  soon  after  they  had 
entered  it.  The  majority  of  them  remained  there, 
and,  speaking  softly,  began  to  make  ready  for  their 
sleep,  outspreading  their  cloaks  over  the  transparent 
embroidery  of  the  shadows  and  the  moonlight.  Jesus, 
tormented  with  uneasiness,  and  four  of  His  disciples 
went  further  into  the  depth  of  the  garden.  Tliere 
they  seated  themselves  on  the  ground,  whicli  had  not 
yet  cooled  off  from  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  wbile 
Jesus  was  silent,  Peter  and  John  lazily  exchanged 
words  almost  devoid  of  any  meaning.  Yawning  from 
fatigue,  they  spoke  about  tlie  coolness  of  the  nighl ; 
about  the  high  price  of  meat  in  Jeriisalem,  and  about 
the  fact  that  no  fish  was  to  be  had  in  the  city.  They 
tried  to  determine  the  exact  number  of  pilgrims  that 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      233 

had  gathered  iu  Jerusalem  for  the  festival,  and  Peter, 
drawling  his  words  and  yawning  loudly,  said  that  they 
numbered  20,000,  while  John  and  his  brother  Jacob 
assured  him  just  as  lazily  that  they  did  not  number 
more  than  10,000.     Suddenly  Jesus  rose  quickly. 

"My  soul  is  exceedingly  sorrowful,  even  unto  death ; 
tarry  ye  here  and  watch  with  Me,"  He  said,  and  de- 
parted hastily  to  the  grove  and  soon  disappeared  amid 
its  motionless  shades  and  light. 

** Where  did  He  go?"  said  John,  lifting  himself  on 
his  elbow.  Peter  turned  his  head  in  the  direction  of 
Jesus  and  answered  f  atiguedly : 

"I  do  not  know." 

And  he  yawned  again  loudly,  then  threw  himself 
on  his  back  and  became  silent.  The  others  also  be- 
came silent,  and  their  motionless  bodies  were  soon  ab- 
sorbed in  the  sound  sleep  of  fatigue.  Through  his 
heavy  slumber  Peter  vaguely  saw  something  white 
bending  over  him,  some  one 's  voice  resounded  and  died 
away,  leaving  no  trace  in  his  dimmed  consciousness. 

"Simon,  are  you  sleeping?" 

And  he  slept  again,  and  again  some  soft  voice 
reached  his  ear  and  died  away  without  leaving  any 
trace. 

* '  You  could  not  watch  with  me  even  one  hour  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  Master !  if  you  only  knew  how  sleepy  I  am, ' ' 
he  thought  in  his  slumber,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  said  it  aloud.  And  he  slept  again.  And  a  long 
time  seemed  to  have  passed,  when  suddenly  the  figure 
of  Jesus  appeared  near  him,  and  a  loud,  rousing  voice 
instantly  awakened  him  and  the  others: 


234  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

**You  are  still  sleeping  and  resting?  It  is  ended, 
the  hour  has  corae — the  Son  of  Man  is  betrayed  into 
the  hands  of  the  sinners." 

The  disciples  quickly  sprang  to  their  feet,  con- 
fusedly seizing  their  cloaks  and  trembling  from  the 
cold  of  the  sudden  awakening.  Through  the  thicket 
of  the  trees  a  multitude  of  warriors  and  temple  serv- 
ants was  seen  approaching  noisily,  illumining  their 
way  with  torches.  And  from  the  other  side  the  dis- 
ciples came  running,  quivering  from  cold,  their  sleepy 
faces  frightened ;  and  not  yet  understanding  what  was 
going  on,  they  asked  hastily : 

* '  What  is  it  ?    Who  are  these  people  with  torches  ? ' ' 

Thomas,  pale  faced,  his  moustaches  in  disorder,  his 
teeth  chattering  from  chilliness,  said  to  Peter: 

"They  have  evidently  come  after  us." 

Now  a  multitude  of  warriors  surrounded  them,  and 
the  smoky,  quivering  light  of  the  torches  dispelled 
the  soft  light  of  the  moon.  In  front  of  the  warriors 
walked  Judas  Iscariot  quickly,  and  sharply  turning 
his  quick  eye,  searched  for  Jesus.  lie  found  Him, 
rested  his  look  for  an  instant  upon  His  tall,  slender 
figure,  and  quickly  Avhispered  to  the  priests: 

"Wliomsoever  I  shall  kiss,  that  same  is  He.  Take 
Him  and  lead  Him  cautiously.  Lead  Him  cautiously, 
do  you  hear  ? ' ' 

Then  he  moved  quickly  to  Jesus,  who  waited  for 
him  in  silence,  and  he  directed  his  straight,  sharp 
look,  like  a  knife,  into  His  calm,  darkened  eyes. 

"Hail,  Master!"  he  said  loudly,  chai-.^ing  his  words 
of  usual  greeting  with  a  strange  and  stern  meaning. 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      235 

But  Jesus  was  silent,  and  the  disciples  looked  at 
the  traitor  with  horror,  not  understanding  how  the 
soul  of  a  man  could  contain  so  much  evil.  Iscariot 
threw  a  rapid  glance  at  their  confused  ranks,  noticed 
their  quiver,  which  was  about  to  turn  into  a  loud, 
trembling  fear,  noticed  their  pallor,  their  senseless 
smiles,  the  drowsy  movements  of  their  hands,  which 
seemed  as  though  fettered  in  iron  at  the  shoulders — 
and  a  mortal  sorrow  began  to  burn  in  his  heart,  akin 
to  the  sorrow  Christ  had  experienced  before.  Out- 
stretching himself  into  a  hundred  ringing,  sobbing 
strings,  he  rushed  over  to  Jesus  and  kissed  His  cold 
cheek  tenderly.  He  kissed  it  so  softly,  so  tenderly, 
with  such  painful  love  and  sorrow,  that  if  Jesus  had 
been  a  tlower  upon  a  thin  stalk  it  would  not  have 
shaken  from  this  kiss  and  would  not  have  dropped  the 
pearly  dew  from  its  pure  petals. 

"Judas,"  said  Jesus,  and  with  the  lightning  of  His 
look  He  illumined  that  monstrous  heap  of  shadows 
which  was  Iscariot 's  soul,  but  he  could  not  penetrate 
into  the  bottomless  depth.  ''Judas!  Is  it  with  a 
kiss  you  betray  the  Son  of  Man?" 

And  He  saw  how  that  monstrous  chaos  trembled 
and  stirred.  Speechless  and  stern,  like  death  in  its 
haughty  majesty,  stood  Judas  Iscariot,  and  within  him 
a  thousand  impetuous  and  fiery  voices  groaned  and 
roared : 

''Yes!  AVe  betray  Thee  with  the  kiss  of  love! 
With  the  kiss  of  love  we  betray  Thee  to  outrage,  to 
torture,  to  death !  With  tlie  voice  of  love  we  call 
together  the  hangmen  from  their  dark  holes,  and  we 


236  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

place  a  cross — and  high  over  the  top  of  the  earth  we 
lift  love,  crucified  by  love  upon  a  cross." 

Thus  stood  Judas,  silent  and  cold,  like  death,  and 
the  shouting  and  the  noise  about  Jesus  answered  the 
cry  of  His  soul.  With  the  rude  irresolutenoss  of 
armed  force,  with  the  awkwardness  of  a  vaguely  un- 
derstood purpose,  the  soldiers  seized  Him  and  dragged 
Him  off — mistaking  their  irresoluteness  for  resistance, 
their  fear  for  derision  and  mockery.  Like  a  flock  of 
frightened  lambs,  the  disciples  stood  huddled  together, 
not  interfering,  yet  disturbing  everybody,  even 
themselves.  Only  a  few  of  them  resolved  to  walk  and 
act  separately.  Jostled  from  all  sides,  Peter  drew  out 
the  sword  from  its  sheath  with  difficulty,  as  though  he 
had  lost  all  his  strength,  and  faintly  lowered  it  upon 
the  head  of  one  of  the  priests — without  causing  him 
any  harm.  Jesus,  observing  this,  ordered  him  to 
throw  away  the  useless  weapon,  and  it  fell  under  foot 
with  a  dull  thud,  and  so  evidently  had  it  lost  its 
sharpness  and  destructive  power  that  it  did  not  oc- 
cur to  any  one  to  pick  it  up.  So  it  rolled  about 
under  foot,  until  several  days  afterwards  it  was  found 
on  the  same  spot  by  some  children  at  play,  who  made 
a  toy  of  it. 

The  soldiers  kept  dispersing  the  disciples,  but  they 
gathered  together  again  and  stupidly  got  under  the 
soldiers'  feet,  and  this  went  on  so  long  that  at  last 
a  contemptuous  rage  mastered  the  soldiery.  One  of 
them  with  frowning  broAV  went  up  to  tlie  slioutiiv-,' 
John ;  another  rudely  pushed  from  his  sliouldor  tlio 
hand  of  Thomas,  who  was  arguing  with  him  about 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      23T 

something  or  other,  and  shook  a  big  fist  right  in  front 
of  his  straightforward,  transparent  eyes.  'John  fled, 
and  Thomas  and  James  fled,  and  all  the  disciples,  as 
many  as  were  present,  forsook  Jesus  and  fled.  Losing 
their  cloaks,  knocking  themselves  against  the  trees, 
tripping  up  against  stones  and  falling,  they  fled  to  the 
hills  terror-driven,  while  in  the  stillness  of  the  moon- 
light night  the  ground  rumbled  loudly  beneath  the 
tramp  of  many  feet.  Some  one,  whose  name  did  not 
transpire,  just  risen  from  his  bed  (for  he  was  covered 
only  with  a  blanket),  rushed  excitedly  into  the  crowd 
of  soldiers  and  servants.  When  they  tried  to  stop 
him,  and  seized  hold  of  his  blanket,  he  gave  a  cry  of 
terror,  and  took  to  flight  like  the  others,  leaving  his 
garment  in  the  hands  of  the  soldiers.  And  so  he  ran 
stark-naked,  with  desperate  leaps,  and  his  bare  body 
glistened  strangely  in  the  moonlight. 

"When  Jesus  was  led  away,  Peter,  who  had  hidden 
himself  behind  the  trees,  came  out  and  followed  his 
Master  at  a  distance.  Noticing  another  man  in  front 
of  him,  who  walked  silently,  he  thought  that  it  was 
John,  and  he  called  him  softly : 

"John,  is  that  you?" 

"And  is  that  you,  Peter?"  answered  the  other, 
pausing,  and  by  the  voice  Peter  recognised  the  traitor. 
"Peter,  why  did  you  not  run  away  together  with  the 
others?" 

Peter  stopped  and  said  with  contempt : 

"Leave  me,  Satan!" 

Judas  began  to  laugh,  and  paying  no  further  at- 
tention to  Peter,  he  advanced  where  the  torches  wer§ 


238  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

flashing  dimly  and  where  the  clanking  of  the  weapons 
mingled  with  the  footsteps.  Peter  followed  him  cau- 
tiously, and  thus  they  entered  the  court  of  the  high 
priest  almost  simultaneously  and  mingled  in  the  crowd 
of  the  priests  who  were  warming  themselves  at  the 
bonfires.  Judas  warmed  his  bony  hands  morosely  at 
the  bonfire  and  heard  Peter  saying  loudly  somewhere 
behind  him : 

"No,  I  do  not  know  Him." 

But  it  was  evident  that  they  were  insisting  there 
that  he  was  one  of  the  disciples  of  Jesus,  for  Peter 
repeated  still  louder:  "But  I  do  not  understand 
what  you  are  saying." 

Without  turning  around,  and  smiling  involuntarily, 
'Judas  shook  his  head  afiSrmatively  and  muttered : 

"That's  right,  Peter!  Do  not  give  up  the  place 
near  Jesus  to  any  one." 

And  he  did  not  see  the  frightened  Peter  walk 
away  from  the  courtyard.  And  from  that  night  until 
the  very  death  of  Jesus,  Judas  did  not  see  a  single  one 
of  the  disciples  of  Jesus  near  Him ;  and  amid  all  that 
multitude  there  were  only  two,  inseparable  until 
death,  strangely  bound  together  by  sufferings — lie 
who  had  been  betrayed  to  abuse  and  torture  and  he 
who  had  betrayed  Him.  Like  brothers,  they  both,  the 
Bertayed  and  the  betrayer,  drank  out  of  the  same  cup 
of  sufferings,  and  the  fiery  liquid  burned  equally  the 
pure  and  the  impure  lips. 

Gazing  fixedly  at  the  wood-fire,  which  imparted  a 
feeling  of  warmth  to  his  ej'es,  stretching  out  his  long, 
shaking  hands  to  the  flame,  his  hands  and  feet  form- 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      239 

ing  a  confused  outline  in  the  trembling  light  and 
shade,  Iscariot  kept  mumbling  in  hoarse  complaint: 

• '  How  cold !    My  God,  how  cold  it  is ! " 

So,  when  the  fishermen  go  away  at  night  leaving  an 
expiring  fire  of  drift-wood  upon  the  shore,  from  the 
dark  depth  of  the  sea  might  something  creep  forth, 
crawl  up  towards  the  fire,  look  at  it  with  wild  iutent- 
ness,  and  dragging  all  its  limbs  up  to  it,  mutter  in 
hoarse  complaint: 

' '  How  cold !     My  God,  how  cold  it  is ! " 

Suddenly  Judas  heard  behind  him  a  burst  of  loud 
voices,  the  cries  and  laughter  of  the  soldiers  full  of 
the  usual  sleepy,  greedy  malice ;  and  lashes,  short  fre- 
quent strokes  upon  a  living  body.  He  turned  round, 
a  momentary  anguish  running  through  his  whole 
frame — his  very  bones.     They  were  scourging  Jesus. 

Has  it  come  to  that? 

He  had  seen  the  soldiers  lead  Jesus  away  with 
them  to  their  guardroom.  The  night  was  already 
nearly  over,  the  fires  had  sunk  down  and  were  covered 
with  ashes,  but  from  the  guardroom  was  still  borne 
the  sound  of  muffled  cries,  laughter,  and  invectives. 
They  were  scourging  Jesus. 

As  one  who  has  lost  his  way,  Iscariot  ran  nimbly 
about  the  empty  courtyard,  stopped  in  his  course, 
lifted  his  head  and  ran  on  again,  and  was  surprised 
when  he  came  into  collision  with  heaps  of  embers,  or 
with  the  walls. 

Then  he  clung  to  the  wall  of  the  guardroom, 
stretc'lied  himself  out  to  his  full  height,  and  glued 
himself  to  the  window  and  the  crevices  of  the  door, 


240  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

eagerly  examining  what  they  were  doing.  He  saw  a 
confined  stuffy  room,  dirty,  like  all  guardrooms  in 
the  world,  with  bespitten  floor,  and  walls  as  greasy 
and  stained  as  though  they  had  been  trodden  and 
rolled  upon.  And  he  saw  the  Man  whom  they  were 
scourging.  They  struck  Him  on  the  face  and  head, 
and  tossed  Him  about  like  a  soft  bundle  from  one  end 
of  the  room  to  the  other.  And  since  He  neither  cried 
out  nor  resisted,  after  looking  intently,  it  actually  ap- 
peared at  moments  as  though  it  was  not  a  living 
human  being,  but  a  soft  effigy  without  bones  or  blood. 
It  bent  itself  strangely  like  a  doll,  and  in  falling, 
knocking  its  head  against  the  stone  floor  it  did  not  give 
the  impression  of  a  hard  substance  striking  against 
a  hard  substance,  but  of  something  soft  and  devoid 
of  feeling.  And  when  one  looked  long,  it  became  like 
some  strange,  endless  game — and  sometimes  it  became 
almost  a  complete  illusion. 

After  one  hard  kick,  the  man  or  efiSgy  fell  slowly  on 
its  knees  before  a  sitting  soldier,  he  in  turn  flung 
it  away,  and  turning  over,  it  dropped  down  before  the 
next,  and  so  on  and  on.  A  loud  guffaw  arose,  and 
Judas  smiled  too, — as  though  the  strong  hand  of  some 
one  with  iron  fingers  had  torn  his  mouth  asunder.  It 
was  the  mouth  of  Judas  that  was  deceived. 

Night  dragged  on,  and  the  fires  were  still  smoulder- 
ing. Judas  threw  himself  from  the  wall,  and  crawled 
to  one  of  the  fires,  poked  up  the  aslies,  rekindled  it, 
and  although  he  no  longer  felt  the  cold,  he  stretched 
his  slightly  trembling  hands  over  the  flames,  and  be- 
gan to  mutter  dolefully: 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      241 

"Ah!  how  painful,  my  Son,  my  Son!  How  pain- 
ful!" 

Then  he  went  again  to  the  window,  which  was 
gleaming  yellow  with  a  dull  light  between  the  thick 
grating,  and  once  more  began  to  watch  them  scourging 
Jesus.  Once  before  the  very  eyes  of  Judas  appeared 
His  swarthy  countenance,  now  marred  out  of  human 
semblance,  and  covered  with  a  forest  of  dishevelled 
hair.  Then  some  one 's  hand  plunged  into  those  locks, 
threw  the  Man  down,  and  rhythmically  turning  His 
head  from  one  side  to  the  other,  began  to  wipe  the 
filthy  floor  with  His  face.  Right  under  the  window  a 
soldier  was  sleeping,  his  open  mouth  revealing  his 
gl  ittering  white  teeth ;  and  some  one 's  broad  back, 
with  naked,  brawny  neck,  barred  the  window,  so  that 
nothing  more  could  be  seen.  And  suddenly  the  noise 
ceased. 

"What's  that?  Why  are  they  silent?  Have  they 
suddenly  divined  the  truth?" 

Momentarily  the  whole  head  of  Judas,  in  all  its 
parts,  was  filled  with  the  rumbling,  shouting  and  roar- 
ing of  a  thousand  maddened  thoughts !  Had  they 
divined?  They  understood  that  this  was  the  very 
best  of  men — it  was  so  simple,  so  clear!  Lo!  He  is 
coming  out,  and  behind  Him  they  are  abjectly  crawl- 
ing. Yes,  He  is  coming  here,  to  Judas,  coming  out 
a  victor,  a  hero,  arbiter  of  the  truth,  a  god.  .  .  . 

"Who  is  deceiving  Judas?     Who  is  right?" 
,  But  no.     Once  more  noise  and  shouting.     They  are 
scourging  Him  again.     They  do  not  understand,  they 
have  not  guessed,  they  are  beating  Him  harder,  more 


242  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

cruelly  than  ever.  The  fires  burn  out,  covered  with 
ashes,  and  the  smoke  above  them  is  as  transparently 
blue  as  the  air,  and  the  sky  as  bright  as  the  moon. 
It  is  the  day  approaching. 

**What  is  day?"  asks  Judas. 

And  lo !  everything  begins  to  glow,  to  scintillate,  to 
grow  young  again,  and  the  smoke  above  is  no  longer 
blue,  but  rose-coloured.     It  is  the  sun  rising. 

**AVhat  is  the  sun?"  asks  Judas. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THEY  pointed  the  finger  at  Judas,  and  some 
in  contempt,  others  with  hatred  and  fear, 
said: 

''Look,  that  is  Judas  the  Traitor!" 

This  already  began  to  be  the  opprobrious  title,  to 
which  he  had  doomed  himself  throughout  the  ages. 
Thousands  of  years  may  pass,  nation  may  supplant 
nation,  and  still  the  air  will  resound  with  the  words, 
uttered  with  contempt  and  fear  by  good  and  bad 
alike : 

''Judas  the  Traitor!" 

But  he  listened  imperturbably  to  what  was  said  of 
him,  dominated  by  a  feeling  of  burning,  all-subduing 
curiosity.  Ever  since  the  morning  when  they  led 
forth  Jesus  from  the  guardroom,  after  scourging  Him, 
Judas  had  followed  Him,  strangely  enough  feeling 
neither  grief  nor  pain  nor  joy — only  an  unconquerable 
desire  to  see  and  hear  ever3i;hing.  Though  he  had 
had  no  sleep  the  whole  night,  his  body  felt  light; 
when  he  was  crushed  and  prevented  from  advancing, 
he  elbowed  his  way  through  the  crowed  and  adroitly 
wormed  himself  into  the  front  place ;  and  not  for  a 
moment  did  his  vivid  quick  eye  remain  at  rest.  At 
the  examination  of  Jesus  before  Caiaphas,  in  order  not 

243 


244  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

to  lose  a  word,  he  hollowed  his  hand  round  his  ear, 
aud  nodded  his  head  in  affirmation,  murmuring : 

**Just  so!    Thou  hearest,  Jesus?" 

But  he  was  a  prisoner,  like  a  fly  tied  to  a  thread, 
which,  buzzing,  flies  hither  and  thither,  but  cannot  for 
one  moment  free  itself  from  the  tractable  but  un- 
yielding thread. 

Certain  stony  thoughts  lay  at  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  to  these  he  was  firmly  bound;  he  knew  not,  as  it 
were,  what  these  thoughts  were;  he  did  not  wish  to 
stir  them  up,  l)ut  he  felt  thera  continuallj''.  At  times 
they  would  come  to  him  all  of  a  sudden,  oppress  him 
more  and  more,  and  begin  to  crush  him  with  their 
unimaginable  weight,  as  though  the  vault  of  a  rocky 
cavern  were  slowly  and  terribly  descending  upon  his 
head. 

Then  he  would  grip  his  heart  with  his  hand,  and 
strive  to  set  his  whole  body  in  motion,  as  though  he 
were  perishing  with  cold,  and  hasten  to  shift  his  eyes 
to  a  fresh  place,  and  again  to  another.  When  they 
led  Jesus  away  from  Caiaphas,  he  met  His  weary  eyes 
quite  close,  and,  somehow  or  other,  unconsciously  he 
gave  Him  several  friendly  nods. 

"I  am  here,  my  Son,  I  am  here,"  he  muttered  hur- 
riedly, and  maliciously  poked  to  some  gaper  in  the 
back  who  stood  in  his  way. 

And  now,  in  a  huge  shouting  crowd,  they  all  moved 
on  to  Pilate  for  the  last  examination  and  trial,  and 
with  the  same  insupportable  curiosity  Judas  searched 
the  faces  of  the  ever  swelling  multitude.  Many  were 
quite  unknown  to  him;  Judas  had  never  seen  them 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      245 

before,  but  some  were  there  who  had  cried,  **Ho- 
sanna!"  to  Jesus,  and  at  each  step  the  number  of 
them  seemed  to  increase. 

''Well,  well!"  thought  Judas,  and  his  head  spun 
round  as  if  he  were  drunk,  "the  worst  is  over.  Di- 
rectly they  will  be  crying:  'He  is  ours,  He  is  Jesus! 
what  are  you  about?'  and  all  will  understand,  and — " 

But  the  believers  walked  in  silence.  Some  hypo- 
critically smiled,  as  if  to  say :  * '  The  affair  is  none  of 
ours!"  Others  spoke  with  constraint,  but  their  low 
voices  were  drowned  in  the  rumbling  of  movement, 
and -the  loud  delirious  shouts  of  His  enemies. 

And  Judas  felt  better  again.  Suddenly  he  noticed 
Thomas  cautiously  slipping  through  the  crowd  not  far 
off,  and  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  he  was  about  to 
go  up  to  him.  At  the  sight  of  the  traitor,  Thomas  was 
frightened,  and  tried  to  hide  himself.  But  in  a  little 
narrow  street,  between  two  walls,  Judas  overtook 
him. 

''Thomas,  wait  a  bit!" 

Thomas  stopped,  and  stretching  both  hands  out  in 
front  of  him  solemnly  pronounced  the  words : 

"Avaunt,  Satan!" 

Iscariot  made  an  impatient  movement  of  the 
hands. 

"What  a  fool  you  are,  Thomas!  I  thought  that 
you  had  more  sense  than  the  others.  Satan  indeed ! 
That  requires  proof." 

Letting  his  hands  fall,  Thomas  asked  in  surprise : 

"But  did  not  you  betray  the  Master?  I  myself 
saw  you  bring  the  soldiers,  and  point  Him  out  to 


246  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

them.  If  this  is  not  treachery,  I  should  like  to  know 
what  is!" 

* '  Never  mind  that, ' '  hurriedly  said  Judas.  ' '  Listen, 
there  are  many  of  you  here.  You  must  all  gather  to- 
gether, and  loudly  demand:  'Give  up  Jesus.  He  is 
ours!'  They  will  not  refuse  you,  they  dare  not. 
They  themselves  will  understand." 

"What  do  you  mean!  "What  are  you  thinking 
of!"  said  Thomas,  with  a  decisive  wave  of  his  hands. 
"Have  you  not  seen  what  a  number  of  armed  sol- 
diers and  servants  of  the  Temple  there  are  here? 
Moreover,  the  trial  has  not  yet  taken  place,  and  we 
must  not  interfere  with  the  court.  Surely  he  under- 
stands that  Jesus  is  innocent,  and  will  order  His  re- 
lease without  delay. ' ' 

"You,  then,  think  so  too,"  said  Judas  thoughtfully. 
"Thomas,  Thomas,  what  if  it  be  the  truth?  What 
then  ?     Who  is  right  ?     Who  has  deceived  Judas  ? ' ' 

"We  were  all  talking  last  night,  and  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  court  cannot  condemn  the  innocent. 
But  if  it  does,  why  then — " 

"What  then!" 

"Why,  then  it  is  no  court.  And  it  will  be  the  worse 
for  them  when  they  have  to  give  an  account  before  the 
real  Judge." 

' '  Before  the  real !  Is  there  any  '  real '  left  ? ' '  sneered 
Judas. 

"And  all  of  our  party  cursed  you;  but  since  you 
say  that  you  were  not  the  traitor,  I  think  you  ought 
to  be  tried." 

Judas  did  not  want  to  hear  him  out;  but  turned 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS       247 

right  about,  and  hurried  down  the  street  in  the  wake 
of  the  retreating  crowd.  He  soon,  however,  slack- 
ened his  pace,  mindful  of  the  fact  that  a  crowd  always 
travels  slowly,  and  that  a  single  pedestrian  will  in- 
evitably overtake  it. 

When  Pilate  led  Jesus  out  from  his  palace,  and  set 
Him  before  the  people,  Judas,  crushed  against  a 
column  by  the  heavy  backs  of  the  soldiers,  furiously 
turning  his  head  about  to  see  something  between  two 
shining  helmets,  suddenly  felt  clearly  that  the  worst 
was  over.  He  saw  Jesus  in  the  sunshine,  high  above 
the  heads  of  the  crowd,  blood-stained^  pale  with  a 
crown  of  thorns,  the  sharp  spikes  of  which  pressed 
into  His  forehead. 

He  stood  on  the  edge  of  an  elevation,  visible  from 
His  head  to  His  small,  sunburnt  feet,  and  waited  so 
calmly,  was  so  serene  in  His  immaculate  purity,  that 
only  a  blind  man,  who  perceived  not  the  very  sun, 
could  fail  to  see,  only  a  madman  would  not  under- 
stand. And  the  people  held  their  peace — it  was 
so  still,  that  Judas  heard  the  breathing  of  the  soldier 
in  front  of  him,  and  how,  at  each  breath,  a  strap 
creaked  somewhere  about  his  body. 

"Yes,  it  will  soon  be  over!  They  will  understand 
immediately,"  thought  Judas,  and  suddenly  some- 
thing strange,  like  the  dazzling  joy  of  falling  from 
a  giddy  height  into  a  blue  sparkling  abj'ss,  arrested 
his  heart-beats. 

Contemptuously  drawing  his  lips  down  to  his 
rounded  well-shaven  chin,  Pilate  flung  to  the  crowd 
the  dry,  curt  words — as  one  throws  bones  to  a  pack 


248  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

of  hungry  hounds — thinking  to  cheat  their  longing 
for  fresh  blood  and  living,  palpitating  flesh : 

"You  have  brought  this  Man  before  me  as  a  cor- 
rupter of  the  people,  and  behold  I  have  examined 
Him  before  you,  and  I  find  this  Man  guiltless  of  that 
of  which  you  accuse  Him.  ..." 
Judas  closed  his  eyes.  He  was  waiting. 
All  the  people  began  to  shout,  to  sob,  to  howl  with 
a  tliousand  voices  of  wild  beasts  and  men : 

"Put  Him  to  death!  Crucify  Him!  Crucify 
Him!"  And  as  though  in  self -mockery,  as  though 
wishing  in  one  moment  to  plumb  the  very  depths  of 
all  possible  degradation,  madness  and  shame,  the 
crowd  cries  out,  sobs,  and  demands  with  a  thousand 
voices  of  wild  beasts  and  men : 

"Release  unto  us  Barabbas!  But  crucify  Him! 
Crucify  Him!" 

But  the  Roman  had  evidently  not  yet  said  his  last 
word.  Over  his  proud,  shaven  countenance  there 
passed  convulsions  of  disgust  and  anger.  He  under- 
stood !  He  has  understood  all  along !  He  speaks 
quietly  to  his  attendants,  but  his  voice  is  not  heard  in 
the  roar  of  the  crowd.  What  does  he  say  ?  Is  he  or- 
dering them  to  bring  swords,  and  to  smite  those  ma- 
niacs? 

"Bring  water." 

"Water?    Wliat  water?    What  for?" 
Ah,  lo!  he  washes  his  hands.    Why  does  he  wash 
his  clean  white  hands  all  adorned  with  rings?     He 
lifts  them  and  cries  angrily  to  the  people,  whom  sur- 
prise holds  in  silence: 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      249 

"I  am  innocent  of  the  blood  of  this  Just  Person. 
See  ye  to  it." 

"While  the  water  is  still  dripping  from  his  fingers 
on  to  the  marble  pavement,  something  soft  prostrates 
itself  at  his  feet,  and  sharp,  burning  lips  kiss  his  hand, 
which  he  is  powerless  to  withdraw,  glue  themselves 
to  it  like  tentacles,  almost  bite  and  draw  blood.  He 
looks  down  in  disgust  and  fear,  and  sees  a  great 
squirming  body,  a  strangely  twofold  face,  and  two 
immense  eyes  so  queerly  diverse  from  one  another 
that,  as  it  were,  not  one  being  but  a  number  of  them 
clung  to  his  hands  and  feet.  He  heard  a  broken, 
burning  whisper : 

*'0  wise  and  noble  .  .  .  wise  and  noble." 

And  with  such  a  truly  satanic  joy  did  that  wild 
face  blaze,  that,  with  a  cry,  Pilate  kicked  him  away, 
and  Judas  fell  backwards.  And  there  he  lay  upon 
the  stone  flags  like  an  overthrown  demon,  still  stretch- 
ing out  his  hand  to  the  departing  Pilate,  and  crying 
as  one  passionately  enamoured : 

"O  wise,  0  wise  and  noble.  ..." 

Then  he  gathered  himself  up  with  agility,  and  ran 
away  folloAved  by  the  laughter  of  the  soldiery. 
Evidently  there  was  yet  hope.  Wlien  they  come  to 
see  the  cross,  and  the  nails,  then  they  will  under- 
stand, and  then.  .  .  .  What  then?  He  catches  sight 
of  the  panic-stricken  Thomas  in  passing,  and  for  some 
reason  or  other  reassuringly  nods  to  him ;  he  overtakes 
Jesus  being  led  to  execution.  The  walking  is  diffi- 
cult, small  stones  roll  under  the  feet,  and  suddenly 
Judas  feels  that  he  is  tired.     He  gives  himself  up 


250  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

wholly  to  the  trouble  of  deciding  where  best  to  plant 
his  feet,  he  looks  dully  around,  and  sees  Mary  IMag- 
dalene  weeping,  and  a  number  of  women  weeping — 
hair  dishevelled,  eyes  red,  lips  distorted — all  the  ex- 
cessive grief  of  a  tender  woman's  soul  when  submit- 
ted to  outrage.  Suddenly  he  revives,  and  seizing  the 
moment,  runs  up  to  Jesus: 

"I  go  with  Thee,"  he  hurriedly  whispers. 

The  soldiers  drive  hira  away  with  blows  of  their 
whips,  and  squirming  so  as  to  avoid  the  blows,  and 
showing  his  teeth  at  the  soldiers,  he  explains  hur- 
riedly : 

"I  go  with  Thee.  Thither.  Thou  understandest 
whither. ' ' 

He  wipes  the  blood  from  his  face,  shakes  his  fist 
at  one  of  the  soldiers,  who  turns  round  and  smiles, 
and  points  him  out  to  the  others.  Then  he  looks  for 
Thomas,  but  neither  he  nor  any  of  the  disciples  are 
in  the  crowd  that  accompanies  Jesus.  Again  he  is 
conscious  of  fatigue,  and  drags  one  foot  with  difficulty 
after  the  other,  as  he  attentively  looks  out  for  the 
sharp,  white,  scattered  pebbles. 

"When  the  hammer  was  uplifted  to  nail  Jesus'  left 
hand  to  the  tree,  Judas  closed  his  eyes,  and  for  a 
whole  age  neither  breathed,  nor  saw,  nor  lived,  but 
only  listened. 

But  lo!  with  a  grating  sound,  iron  strikes  against 
iron,  time  after  time,  dull,  short  blows,  and  then 
the  sharp  nail  penetrating  the  soft  wood  and  separat- 
ing its  particles  is  distinctly  heard. 

One  hand.     It  is  not  yet  too  late! 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      251 

The  other  hand.    It  is  not  yet  too  late ! 

A  foot,  the  other  foot !     Is  all  lost  ? 

He  irresolutely  opens  his  eyes,  and  sees  how  the 
cross  is  raised,  and  rocks,  and  is  set  fast  in  the  trench. 
He  sees  how  the  hands  of  Jesus  are  convulsed  by  the 
tension,  how  painfully  His  arms  stretch,  how  the 
wounds  grow  wider,  and  how  the  exhausted  abdomen 
disappears  under  the  ribs.  The  arms  stretch  more 
and  more,  grow  thinner  and  whiter,  and  become  dis- 
located from  the  shoulders,  and  the  wounds  of  the 
nails  redden  and  lengthen  gradually — lo!  in  a  mo- 
ment they  will  be  torn  away.  No.  It  stopped.  All 
stopped.  Only  the  ribs  move  up  and  down  with  the 
short,  deep  breathing. 

On  the  very  crown  of  the  hill  the  cross  is  raised, 
and  on  it  is  the  crucified  Jesus.  The  horror  and  the 
dreams  of  Judas  are  realised,  he  gets  up  from  his 
knees  on  which,  for  some  reason,  he  has  knelt,  and 
gazes  around  coldly. 

Thus  does  a  stern  conqueror  look,  when  he  has  al- 
ready determined  in  his  heart  to  surrender  everything 
to  destruction  and  death,  and  for  the  last  time  throws 
a  glance  over  a  rich  foreign  city,  still  alive  with 
sound,  but  already  phantom-like  under  the  cold  hand 
of  death.  And  suddenly,  as  clearly  as  his  terrible 
victory,  Iscariot  saw  its  ominous  precariousness. 
What  if  they  should  suddenly  understand?  It  is  not 
yet  too  late !  Jesus  still  lives.  There  He  gazes  with 
entreating,  sorrowing  eyes. 

What  can  prevent  the  thin  film  which  covers  the 
eyes  of  mankind,  so  thin  that  it  hardly  seems  to  exist 


252  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

at  all,  what  can  prevent  it  from  rending?  What  if 
they  should  understand?  What  if  suddenly,  in  all 
their  threatening  mass  of  men,  women  and  children, 
they  should  advance,  silently,  without  a  cry,  and  wipe 
out  the  soldiery,  plunging  them  up  to  their  ears  in 
their  own  blood,  should  tear  from  the  ground  the 
accursed  cross,  and  by  the  hands  of  all  who  remain 
alive  should  lift  up  the  liberated  Jesus  above  the  sum- 
mit the  hill !    Hosanna  1    Hosanna ! 

Hosanna?  No!  Better  that  Judas  should  lie  on 
the  ground.  Better  that  he  should  lie  upon  the 
ground,  and  gnashing  his  teeth  like  a  dog,  should 
watch  and  wait  until  all  these  should  rise  up. 

But  what  has  come  to  Time  ?  Now  it  almost  stands 
still,  so  that  one  would  wish  to  push  it  with  the  hands, 
to  kick  it,  beat  it  with  a  whip  like  a  lazy  ass.  Now  it 
rushes  madly  down  some  mountain,  and  catches  its 
breath,  and  stretches  out  its  hand  in  vain  to  stop  it- 
self. There  weeps  the  mother  of  Jesus.  Let  them 
weep.  What  avail  her  tears  now  ?  nay,  the  tears  of  all 
the  mothers  in  the  world  ? 

"What  are  tears?"  asks  Judas,  and  madly  pushes 
unyielding  Time,  beats  it  with  his  fists,  curses  it  like 
a  slave.  It  belongs  to  some  one  else,  and  therefore  is 
unamenable  to  discipline.  Oh !  if  only  it  belonged  to 
Judas!  But  it  belongs  to  all  these  people  who  are 
weeping,  laughing,  chattering  as  in  the  market.  It 
belongs  to  the  sun ;  it  belongs  to  the  cross ;  to  the  heart 
of  Jesus,  which  is  dying  so  slowly. 

What  an  abject  heart  has  Judas!  He  lays  his 
hand  upon  it,  but  it  cries  out:    "Hosanna,"  so  loud 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      25S 

that  all  may  hear.  He  presses  it  to  the  ground,  but  it 
cries,  "Hosanna,  Hosanna!"  like  a  babbler  who  scat- 
ters holy  mysteries  broadcast  through  the  street. 

"Be  still!    Be  still!" 

Suddenly  a  loud  broken  lamentation,  dull  cries,  the 
last  hurried  movements  towards  the  cross.  What  is 
it  ?    Have  they  understood  at  last  ? 

No,  Jesus  is  dying.  But  can  this  be?  Yes,  Jesus 
is  dying.  His  pale  hands  are  motionless,  but  short 
convulsions  run  over  His  face,  and  breast,  and  legs. 
But  can  this  be?  Yes,  He  is  dying.  His  breathing 
becomes  less  frequent.  It  ceases.  No,  there  is  yet 
one  sigh,  Jesus  is  still  upon  the  earth.  But  is  there 
another?    No,  no,  no.    Jesus  is  dead. 

It  is  finished.    Hosanna!     Hosanna! 

His  horror  and  his  dreams  are  realised.  Who  will 
now  snatch  the  victory  from  the  hands  of  Iscariot  ? 

It  is  finished.  Let  all  people  on  earth  stream  to 
Golgotha,  and  shout  with  their  million  throats, 
"Hosanna!  Hosanna!"  And  let  a  sea  of  blood  and 
tears  be  poured  out  at  its  foot,  and  they  will  find  only 
the  shameful  cross  and  a  dead  Jesus! 

Calmly  and  coldly  Iscariot  surveys  the  dead,  letting 
his  gaze  rest  for  a  moment  on  that  neck,  which  he 
had  kissed  only  yesterday  with  a  farewell  kiss;  and 
slowly  goes  away.  Now  all  Time  belongs  to  him,  and 
he  walks  without  hurry;  now  all  the  World  belongs 
to  him,  and  he  steps  firmly,  like  a  ruler,  like  a  king, 
like  one  who  is  infinitely  and  joyfully  alone  in  the 
world.  He  observes  the  iftother  pf  Jesus,  and  says  to 
her  sternly : 


254  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

**Thou  weepest,  mother?  Weep,  weep,  and  long 
will  all  the  mothers  upon  earth  weep  with  thee :  until 
I  come  with  Jesus  and  destroy  death." 

What. does  he  mean?  Is  he  mad,  or  is  he  mocking 
— this  Traitor?  He  is  serious,  and  his  face  is  stern, 
and  his  eyes  no  longer  dart  about  in  mad  haste.  Lo ! 
he  stands  still,  and  with  cold  attention  views  a  new, 
diminished  earth. 

It  has  become  small,  and  he  feels  the  whole  of  it  un- 
der his  feet.  He  looks  at  the  little  mountains,  quietly 
reddening  under  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  and  he 
feels  the  mountains  under  his  feet. 

He  looks  at  the  sky  opening  wide  its  azure  mouth ; 
he  looks  at  the  small  round  disc  of  the  sun,  which 
vainly  strives  to  singe  and  dazzle,  and  he  feels  the  sky 
and  the  sun  under  his  feet.  Infinitely  and  joyfully 
alone,  he  proudly  feels  the  impotence  of  all  forces 
which  operate  in  the  world,  and  has  cast  them  all  into 
the  abyss. 

He  walks  farther  on,  with  quiet,  masterful  steps. 
And  Time  goes  neither  forward  nor  back :  obedientl.y 
it  marches  in  step  with  him  in  all  its  invisible  immen- 
sity. 

It  is  the  end. 


CHAPTER  IX 

AS  an  old  cheat,  coughing,  smiling  fawningly, 
bowing  incessantly,  Judas  Iscariot  the  Trai- 
tor appeared  before  the  Sanhedrin.  It  was 
the  day  after  the  murder  of  Jesus,  about  mid-day. 
There  they  were  all,  His  judges  and  murderers:  the 
aged  Annas  with  his  sons,  exact  and  disgusting  like- 
nesses of  their  father,  and  his  son-in-law  Caiaphas, 
devoured  by  ambition,  and  all  the  other  members  of 
the  Sanhedrin,  whose  names  have  been  snatched  from 
the  memory  of  mankind — rich  and  distinguished  Sad- 
ducees,  proud  in  their  power  and  knowledge  of  the 
Law. 

In  silence  they  received  the  Traitor,  their  haughty 
faces  remaining  motionless,  as  though  no  one  had  en- 
tered. And  even  the  very  least,  and  most  insignifi- 
cant among  them,  to  whom  the  others  paid  no  atten- 
tion, lifted  up  his  bird-like  face  and  looked  as  though 
no  one  had  entered. 

Judas  bowed  and  bowed  and  bowed,  and  they 
looked  on  in  silence :  as  though  it  were  not  a  human 
being  that  had  entered,  but  only  an  unclean  insect 
that  had  crept  in,  and  which  they  had  not  observed. 
But  Judas  Iscariot  was  not  the  man  to  be  perturbed : 
they  kept  silence,  and  he  kept  on  bowing,  and  thought 
that  if  it  was  necessary  to  go  on  bowing  till  evening, 

he  could  do  so. 

255 


256  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

At  length  Caiaphas  inquired  impatiently : 

"What  do  you  want?" 

Judas  bowed  once  more,  and  said  in  a  loud  voice — 

"It  is  I,  tludas  Iscariot,  who  betrayed  to  you  Jesus 
of  Nazareth." 

"Well,  what  of  that?  You  have  received  your 
due.  Go  away  I"  ordered  Annas;  but  Judas  ap- 
peared unconscious  of  the  command,  and  continued 
bowing.    Glancing  at  him,  Caiaphas  asked  Annas : 

"How  much  did  you  give?" 

"Thirty  pieces  of  silver." 

Caiaphas  laughed,  and  even  the  grey-bearded  An- 
nas laughed,  too,  and  over  all  their  proud  faces  there 
crept  a  smile  of  enjoyment ;  and  even  the  one  with  the 
bird-like  face  laughed.  Judas,  perceptibly  blanch- 
ing, hastily  interrupted  with  the  words : 

"That's  right!  Certainly  it  was  very  little;  but  is 
Judas  discontented,  does  Judas  call  out  that  he  has 
been  robbed?  He  is  satisfied.  Has  he  not  contrib- 
uted to  a  holy  cause — ^yes,  a  holy?  Do  not  the  most 
sage  people  now  listen  to  Judas,  and  think:  He  is 
one  of  us,  this  Judas  Iscariot;  he  is  our  brother,  our 
friend,  this  Judas  Iscariot,  the  Traitor!  Does  not 
Annas  want  to  kneel  down  and  kiss  the  hand  of  Ju- 
das? Only  Judas  will  not  allow  it;  he  is  a  coward, 
he  is  afraid  they  will  bite  him." 

Caiaphas  said : 

"Drive  the  dog  out!    What's  he  barking  about?" 

"Get  along  with  you.  We  have  no  time  to  listen 
to  your  babbling,"  said  Annas  inperturbably. 

iJudas  drew  himself  up  and  closed  his  eyes.     The 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      «57 

hypocrisy,  which  he  had  carried  so  lightly  all  his  life, 
suddenly  became  an  insupportable  burden,  and  with 
one  movement  of  his  eyelashes  he  east  it  from  him. 
And  when  he  looked  at  Annas  again,  his  glance  was 
simple,  direct,  and  terrible  in  its  naked  truthfulness. 
But  they  paid  no  attention  to  this  either. 

"You  want  to  be  driven  out  with  sticks!"  cried 
Caiaphas. 

Panting  under  the  weight  of  the  terrible  worda, 
which  he  was  lifting  higher  and  higher,  in  order  to 
hurl  them  hence  upon  the  heads  of  the  judges,  Judas 
hoarsely  asked : 

"But  you  know  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  .  who  He  was 
.  .  .  He,  whom  you  condemned  yesterday  and  cruci- 
fied?" 

"We  know.    Go  away!"  * 

With  one  word  he  would  straightway  rend  that  thin 
film  which  was  spread  over  their  eyes,  and  all  the 
earth  would  stagger  beneath  the  weight  of  the  merci- 
less truth  I  They  had  a  soul,  they  should  be  deprived 
of  it ;  they  had  a  life,  they  should  lose  their  life ;  they 
had  light  before  their  eyes,  eternal  darkness  and  hor- 
ror should  cover  them.     Hosanna !     Hosanna ! 

And  these  words,  these  terrible  words,  were  tearing 
his  throat  asunder — 

"He  was  no  deceiver.  He  was  innocent  and  pure. 
Do  you  hear?  Judas  deceived  you.  He  betrayed  to 
you  an  innocent  man." 

He  waits.  He  hears  the  aged,  unconcerned  voice  of 
Annas,  saying: 

"And  is  that  all  you  want  to  say?" 


258  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

**You  do  not  seem  to  have  understood  me,"  says 
Judas,  with  dignity,  turning  pale.  "Judas  deceived 
you.  He  was  innocent.  You  have  slain  the  inno- 
cent." 

He  of  the  bird-like  face  smiles;  but  Annas  is  in- 
different, Annas  yawns.  And  Caiaphas  yawns,  too, 
and  says  wearily: 

"What  did  they  mean  by  talking  to  me  about  the 
intellect  of  Judas  Iscariot?  He  is  simply  a  fool,  and 
a  bore,  too." 

"What?"  cries  Judas,  all  suffused  with  dark  mad- 
ness. "But  who  are  you,  the  clever  ones!  Judas 
deceived  you — hear!  It  was  not  He  that  he  be- 
trayed— ^but  you — you  wiseacres,  you,  the  powerful, 
you  he  betrayed  to  a  shameful  death,  which  will  not 
end,  throughout  the  ages.  Thirty  pieces  of  silver! 
Well,  well.  But  that  is  the  price  of  your  blood — 
blood  filthy  as  the  dish-water  which  the  women  throw- 
out  of  the  gates  of  their  houses.  Oh!  Annas,  old, 
grey,  stupid  Annas,  chock-full  of  the  Law,  why  did  you 
not  give  one  silver  piece,  just  one  oholus  more?  At 
this  price  you  will  go  down  through  the  ages ! ' ' 

"Be  off!"  cries  Caiaphas,  growing  purple  in  the 
face.  But  Annas  stops  him  with  a  motion  of  the 
hand,  and  asks  Judas  as  unconcernedly  as  ever: 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Verily,  if  I  were  to  go  into  the  desert,  and  cry  to 
the  wild  beasts:  'Wild  beasts,  have  ye  heard  the  price 
at  which  men  valued  their  Jesus?' — what  would  the 
wild  b(^asts  do?  They  would  creep  out  of  the  lairs, 
they  would  howl  with  anger,  they  would  forget  their 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      259 

fear  of  mankind,  and  would  all  come  here  to  devour 
you !  If  I  were  to  say  to  the  sea :  '  Sea,  knowest  thou 
the  price  at  which  men  valued  their  Jesus?'  If  I 
were  to  say  to  the  mountains :  '  Mountains,  know  ye 
the  price  at  which  men.  valued  their  Jesus?'  Then 
the  sea  and  the  mountains  would  leave  their  places, 
assigned  to  them  for  ages,  and  would  come  here  and 
fall  upon  your  heads ! ' ' 

**Does  Judas  wish  to  become  a  prophet?  He  speaks 
so  loud!"  mockingly  remarks  he  of  the  bird-like  face, 
with  an  ingratiating  glance  at  Caiaphas. 

"To-day  I  saw  a  pale  sun.  It  was  looking  at  the 
earth,  and  saying:  'Where  is  the  Man?'  To-day  I 
saw  a  scorpion.  It  was  sitting  upon  a  stone  and 
laughingly  said:  *  "Where  is  the  Man?'  I  went  near 
and  looked  into  its  eyes.  And  it  laughed  and  said : 
'Where  is  the  Man?  I  do  not  see  Him!'  Wliere  is 
the  Man?  I  ask  you,  I  do  not  see  Him — or  is  Judas 
become  blind,  poor  Judas  Iscariot!" 

And  Iscariot  begins  to  weep  aloud. 

He  was,  during  those  moments,  like  a  man  out  of 
his  mind,  and  Caiaphas  turned  away,  making  a  con- 
temptuous gesture  with  his  hand.  But  Annas  con- 
sidered for  a  time,  and  then  said : 

"I  perceive,  Judas,  that  you  really  have  received 
but  little,  and  that  disturbs  you.  Here  is  some  more 
money;  take  it  and  give  it  to  your  children." 

He  threw  something,  which  rang  shrilly.  The 
sound  had  not  died  hway,  before  another,  like  it, 
straniroly  prolonged  the  clinking. 

Judas  had  hastily  flung  the  pieces  of  silver  and  the 


260  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

oboles  into  the  faces  of  the  high  priest  and  of  the 
judges,  returning  the  price  paid  for  Jesus.  The 
pieces  of  money  flew  in  a  curved  shower,  falling  on 
their  faces,  and  on  the  table,  and  rolling  about  the 
floor. 

Some  of  the  judges  closed  their  hands  with  the 
palms  outwards;  others  leapt  from  their  places,  and 
shouted  and  scolded.  Judas,  trying  to  hit  Annas, 
threw  the  last  coin,  after  which  his  trembling  hand 
had  long  been  fumbling  in  his  wallet,  spat  in  anger, 
and  went  out. 

''Well,  well,"  he  mumbled,  as  he  passed  swiftly 
through  the  streets,  scaring  the  children.  "It  seems 
that  thou  didst  weep,  Judas?  Was  Caiaphas  really 
right  when  he  said  that  Judas  Iscariot  was  a  fool? 
He  who  weeps  in  the  day  of  his  great  revenge  is  not 
worthy  of  it — know'st  thou  that,  Judas?  Let  not 
thine  eyes  deceive  thee ;  let  not  thine  heart  lie  to  thee ; 
flood  not  the  fire  with  tears,  Judas  Iscariot!" 

The  disciples  were  sitting  in  mournful  silence,  lis- 
tening to  what  was  going  on  without.  There  was  still 
danger  that  the  vengeance  of  Jesus'  enemies  might  not 
confine  itself  to  Him,  and  so  they  were  all  expecting 
a  visit  from  the  guard,  and  perhaps  more  executions. 
Near  to  John,  to  whom,  as  the  beloved  disciple,  the 
death  of  Jesus  was  especially  grievous,  sat  IMary  Mag- 
dalene, and  Matthew  trying  to  comfort  him  in  an  un- 
dertone. Mary,  whose  face  was  swollen  with  weep- 
ing, softly  stroked  his  luxurious  curling  hair  with  her 
hand,  while  Matthew  said  didactically,  in  the  words 
of  Solomon; 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      261 

**  'The  long  suffering  is  better  than  a  hero;  and  he 
that  ruleth  his  own  spirit  than  one  who  taketh  a 
city.'  " 

At  this  moment  Judas  knocked  loudly  at  the  door, 
and  entered.  All  started  up  in  terror,  and  at  first 
were  not  sure  who  it  was ;  but  when  they  recognised 
the  hated  countenance,  the  red-haired,  bulbous  head, 
they  uttered  a  simultaneous  cry. 

Peter  raised  both  hands  and  shouted : 

"Get  out  of  here,  Traitor!  Get  out,  or  I  will  kill 
you." 

But  the  others  looked  more  carefully  at  the  face 
and  eyes  of  the  Traitor,  and  said  nothing,  merely 
whispering  in  terror: 

"Leave  him  alone,  leave  him  alone!  He  is  pos- 
sessed with  a  devil." 

Judas  waited  until  they  had  quite  done,  and  then 
cried  out  in  a  loud  voice : 

"Hail,  ye  eyes  of  Judas  Iscariot!  Ye  have  just 
seen  the  cold-blooded  murderers.  Lo!  Where  is  Je- 
sus?    I  ask  you,  where  is  Jesus?" 

There  was  something  compelling  in  the  hoarse  voice 
of  Judas,  and  Thomas  replied  obediently — 

"You  know  yourself,  Judas,  that  our  Master  was 
crucified  yesterday." 

' '  But  how  came  you  to  permit  it  ?  Where  was  your 
love?  Thou,  Beloved  Disciple,  and  thou,  Rock,  where 
were  you  all  when  they  were  crucifying  your  Friend 
on  the  tree  ? ' ' 

"What  could  we  do,  judge  thou?"  said  Thomas, 
with  a  gesture  of  protest. 


^62  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

*'Thou  asketh  that,  Thomas?  Very  well!"  and 
'Judas  threw  his  head  back,  and  fell  upon  him  angrily. 
"He  who  loves  does  not  ask  what  can  be  done — he  goes 
and  does  it — he  weeps,  he  bites,  he  throttles  the  en- 
emy, and  breaks  his  bones!  He,  that  is,  who  loves! 
If  your  son  were  drowning  would  you  go  into  the 
city  and  inquire  of  the  passers  by:  'What  must  I  do? 
My  son  is  drowning!'  No,  you  would  rather  throw 
yourself  into  the  water  and  drown  with  him.  One 
who  loved  would!" 

Peter  replied  grimly  to  the  violent  speech  of  Ju- 
das: 

'*I  drew  a  sword,  but  He  Himself  forbade." 

"Forbade?  And  you  obeyed!"  jeered  Judas. 
"Peter,  Peter,  how  could  you  listen  to  Him?  Does 
He  know  anything  of  men,  and  of  fighting?" 

"lie  who  does  not  submit  to  Him  goes  to  hell 
fire." 

"Then  why  did  you  not  go,  Peter?  Hell  fire! 
What's  that?  Now,  supposing  you  had  gone — what 
good 's  your  soul  to  you,  if  }'ou  dare  not  throw  it  into 
the  fire,  if  you  want  to?" 

"Silence!"  cried  John,  rising.  "He  Himself 
willed  this  sacrifice.     His  sacrifice  is  beautiful!" 

"Is  a  sacrifice  ever  beautiful,  Beloved  Disciple? 
Wherever  there  is  a  sacrifice,  then  there  is  an  ex- 
ecutioner, and  there  traitors !  Sacrifice — tliat  is 
suffering  for  one  and  disgrace  for  all  the  others ! 
Traitors,  traitors,  what  liave  ye  done  with  the 
world?  Now  they  look  at  it  from  above  and  below, 
and  laugh  and  cry:     'Look  at  that  world,  upon  it 


JUDAS  ISCARIQT  AND  OTHERS      263 

they  crucified  Jesus !  *    And  they  spit  on  it — as  I  do ! " 

Judas  angrily  spat  on  the  ground. 

"He  took  upon  Him  the  sin  of  all  mankind.  His 
sacrifice  is  beautiful,"  John  insisted. 

"No !  you  have  taken  all  sin  upon  yourselves.  You, 
Beloved  Disciple,  will  not  a  race  of  traitors  take  their 
beginning  from  you,  a  pusillanimous  and  lying  breed  ? 
O  blind  men,  what  have  ye  done  with  the  earth  ?  You 
have  done  your  best  to  destroy  it,  ye  will  soon  be 
kissing  the  cross  on  which  ye  crucified  Jesus!  Yes, 
yes,  Judas  gives  ye  his  word  that  ye  will  kiss  the 
cross!" 

"Judas,  don't  revile!"  roared  Peter,  pushing. 
"How  could  we  slay  all  His  enemies?  They  are  so 
many!" 

"And  thou,  Peter!"  exclaimed  John  in  anger, 
"dost  thou  not  perceive  that  he  is  possessed  of  Satan? 
Leave  us.  Tempter!  Thou'rt  full  of  lies.  The 
Teacher  forbade  us  to  kill." 

"But  did  He  forbid  you  to  die?  Why  are  you 
alive,  when  He  is  dead?  Why  do  j^our  feet  walk, 
why  does  your  tongiie  talk  trash,  why  do  your  eyes 
blink,  when  He  is  dead,  motionless,  speechless?  How 
do  your  cheeks  dare  to  be  red,  John,  when  His 
are  pale?  How  can  you  dare  to  shout,  Peter, 
when  He  is  silent?  What  could  you  do?  You  ask 
Judas  ?  And  Judas  answers  you,  the  magnificent,  bold 
Judas  Iscariot  replies:  'Die!'  You  ought  to  have 
fallen  on  the  road,  to  have  seized  the  soldiers  by  the 
sword,  by  the  hands,  and  drowned  them  in  a  sea  of 
your  own  blood — yes,  die,  die !    Better  had  it  been. 


264  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

that  His  Father  should  have  cause  to  cry  out  with 
horror,  when  you  all  enter  there ! '  * 

Judas  ceased  with  raised  head.  Suddenly  he  no- 
ticed the  remains  of  a  meal  upon  the  table.  With 
strange  surprise,  curiously,  as  though  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  looked  on  food,  he  examined  it,  and 
slowly  asked: 

"What  is  this?  You  have  been  eating?  Perhaps 
you  have  also  been  sleeping?" 

Peter,  who  had  begun  to  feel  Judas  to  be  some  one, 
who  could  command  obedience,  drooping  his  head, 
tersely  replied:     "I  slept,  I  slept  and  ate!" 

Thomas  said,  resolutely  and  firmly : 

"This  is  all  untrue,  Judas,  Just  consider:  if  we 
had  all  died,  who  would  have  told  the  story  of  Jesus  ? 
Who  would  have  conveyed  His  teaching  to  mankind 
if  we  had  all  died,  Peter  and  John  and  I?" 

"But  what  is  the  truth  itself  in  the  mouths  of 
traitors?  Does  it  not  become  a  lie?  Thomas, 
Thomas,  dost  thou  not  understand,  that  thou  art  now 
only  a  sentinel  at  the  grave  of  dead  Truth  ?  The  sen- 
tinel falls  asleep,  and  the  thief  cometh  and  carries 
away  the  truth;  say,  where  is  the  truth?  Cursed  be 
thou,  Thomas !  Fruitless,  and  a  beggar  shalt  thou  be 
throughout  the  ages,  and  all  you  with  him,  accursed 
ones ! ' ' 

"Accursed  be  thou  thyself,  Satan!"  cried  John, 
and  James  and  Matthew  and  all  the  other  disciples 
repeated  his  cry ;  only  Peter  held  his  peace. 

"I  am  going  to  Him,"  said  Judas,  stretching  hi§ 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      265 

powerful  hand  on  high.  "Who  will  follow  Iscariot 
to  Jesus?" 

"I — I  also  go  with  thee,"  cried  Peter,  rising. 

But  John  and  the  others  stopped  him  in  horror, 
saying : 

"Madman!  Thou  hast  forgotten,  that  he  betrayed 
the  Master  into  the  hands  of  His  enemies. ' ' 

Peter  began  to  lament  bitterly,  striking  his  breast 
with  his  fist : 

"Whither,  then,  shall  I  go ?  O  Lord !  whither  shall 
I  go?" 

Judas  had  long  ago,  during  his  solitary  walks, 
marked  the  place  where  he  intended  to  make  an  end 
of  himself  after  the  death  of  Jesus. 

It  was  upon  a  hill  high  above  Jerusalem.  There 
stood  but  one  tree,  bent  and  twisted  by  the  wind, 
which  had  torn  it  on  all  sides,  half  withered. 
One  of  its  broken,  crooked  branches  stretched  out  to- 
w^ards  Jerusalem,  as  though  in  blessing  or  in  threat, 
and  this  one*  Judas  had  chosen  on  which  to  hang  a 
noose. 

But  the  walk  to  the  tree  was  long  and  tedious,  and 
Judas  Iscariot  was  very  weary.  The  small,  sharp 
stones,  scattered  under  his  feet,  seemed  continually  to 
drag  him  backwards,  and  the  hill  was  high,  stern,  and 
malign,  exposed  to  the  wind.  Judas  was  obliged  to 
sit  down  several  times  to  rest,  and  panted  heavily, 
while  behind  him,  through  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  the 
mountain  breathed  cold  upon  his  back. 


266  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"Thou  too  art  against  me,  accursed  one!"  said 
Judas  contemptuously,  as  he  breathed  with  difficulty, 
and  swayed  his  heavy  head,  in  which  all  the  thoughts 
were  now  petrifying. 

Then  he  raised  it  suddenly,  and  opening  wide  his 
now  fixed  eyes,  angrily  muttered : 

"No,  they  were  too  bad  for  Judas.  Thou  hearest 
Jesus?  Wilt  Thou  trust  me  now?  I  am  coming  to 
Thee.  Lleet  me  kindly,  I  am  weary — very  weary. 
Then  Thou  and  I,  embracing  like  brothers,  shall  re- 
turn to  earth.     Shall  we  not?" 

Again  he  swayed  his  petrifying  head,  and  again  he 
opened  his  eyes,  mumbling : 

"But  maybe  Thou  wilt  be  angry  with  Judas  when 
he  arrives  ?  And  Tliou  wilt  not  trust  him  ?  And  wilt 
send  him  to  hell?  AVell!  What  then!  I  will  go  to 
hell.  And  in  Thy  hell  fire  I  will  weld  iron,  and  weld 
iron,  and  demolish  Thy  heaven.  Dost  approve? 
Then  Thou  wilt  believe  in  me.  Then  Thou  wilt  come 
back  with  me  to  earth,  wilt  Thou  not,  Jesus?" 

Eventually  Judas  reached  the  summit  and  the 
crooked  tree,  and  there  the  wind  began  to  torment 
him.  And  when  Judas  rebuked  it,  it  began  to  blow 
soft  and  low,  and  took  leave  and  flew  away. 

"Right!  But  as  for  them,  they  are  curs!"  said 
Judas,  making  a  slip-knot.  And  since  the  rope  might 
fail  him  and  break,  he  hung  it  over  a  precipice,  so 
that  if  it  broke,  he  would  be  sure  to  meet  his  death 
upon  the  stones.  And  before  he  shoved  himself 
off  the  brink  with  his  foot,  and  hanged  himself,  Judas 


JUDAS  ISCARIOT  AND  OTHERS      267 

Iscariot  once  more  anxiously  prepared  Jesus  for  his 
coming : 

"Yes,  meet  me  kindly,  Jesus.    I  am  very  weary." 

He  leapt.  The  rope  strained,  but  held.  His  neck 
stretched,  but  his  hands  and  feet  were  crossed,  and 
hung  down  as  though  damp. 

He  died.  Thus,  in  the  course  of  two  days,  one  after 
another,  Jesus  of  Nazareth  and  Judas  Iscariot,  the 
Traitor,  left  the  world. 

All  the  night  through,  like  some  monstrous  fruit, 
Judas  swayed  over  Jerusalem,  and  the  wind  kept 
turning  his  face  now  to  the  city,  and  now  to  the  des- 
ert— as  though  it  wished  to  exhibit  Judas  to  both  city 
and  desert.  But  in  whichever  direction  his  face,  dis- 
torted by  death,  was  turned,  his  red  eyes  suffused 
with  blood,  and  now  as  like  one  another  as  two  broth- 
ers, incessantly  looked  towards  the  sky.  In  the  morn- 
ing some  sharp-sighted  person  perceived  Judas  hang- 
ing above  the  city,  and  cried  out  in  horror. 

People  came  and  took  him  down,  and  knowing  who 
he  was,  threw  him  into  a  deep  ravine,  into  which  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  throwing  dead  horses  and  cats 
and  other  carrion. 

The  same  evening  all  the  believers  knew  of  the  ter- 
rible death  of  the  Traitor,  and  the  next  day  it  was 
known  to  all  Jerusalem.  Stony  Judasa  knew  of  it  and 
green  Galilee ;  and  from  one  sea  to  the  other,  distant 
as  it  was,  the  news  flew  of  the  death  of  the  Traitor. 

Neither  faster  nor  slower,  but  with  equal  pace  with 
Time  itself,  it  went,  and  as  there  is  no  end  to  Time  so 


268  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

will  there  be  no  end  to  the  stories  about  the  Traitor 
Judas  and  his  terrible  death. 

And  all — ^both  good  and  bad — will  equally  anathe- 
matise his  shameful  memory;  and  among  all  peoples, 
past  and  present,  will  he  remain  alone  in  his  cruel 
destiny — Judas  Iscariot,  the  Traitor. 


"THE  MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE 
TRUTH" 

CHAPTER  I 

I  WAS  twenty-seven  years  old  and  had  just  main- 
tained my  thesis  for  the  degree  of  Doctor  of 
Mathematics  with  unusual  success,  when  I  was 
suddenly  seized  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  thrown 
into  this  prison.  I  shall  not  narrate  to  you  the  details 
of  the  monstrous  crime  of  which  I  was  accused — there 
are  events  which  people  should  neither  remember  nor 
even  know,  that  they  may  not  acquire  a  feeling  of  aver- 
sion for  themselves ;  but  no  doubt  there  are  many  peo- 
ple among  the  living  who  remember  that  terrible  case 
and  "the  human  brute,"  as  the  newspapers  called  me 
at  that  time.  They  probably  remember  how  the  en- 
tire civilised  society  of  the  land  unanimously  de- 
manded that  the  criminal  be  put  to  death,  and  it  is 
due  only  to  the  inexplicable  kindness  of  the  man  at 
the  head  of  the  Government  ?t  the  time  that  I  am 
alive,  and  I  now  write  these  lines  for  the  edification 
of  the  weak  and  the  wavering. 

I  shall  say  briefly:  My  father,  my  elder  brother, 
and  my  sister  were  murdered  brutally,  and  I  was  sup- 
posed to  have  committed  the  crime  for  the  purpose  of 
securing  a  really  enormous  inheritance, 

268 


270  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

I  am  an  old  man  now ;  I  shall  die  soon,  and  you  "have 
not  the  slightest  ground  for  doubting  when  I  say 
that  I  was  entirely  innocent  of  the  monstrous  and  hor- 
rible crime,  for  which  twelve  honest  and  conscientious 
judges  unanimously  sentenced  me  to  death.  The 
death  sentence  was  finally  commuted  to  imprisonment 
for  life  in  solitary  confinement. 

It  was  merely  a  fatal  linking  of  circumstances,  of 
grave  and  insignificant  events,  of  vague  silence  and 
indefinite  words,  which  gave  me  the  appearance  and 
likeness  of  the  criminal,  innocent  though  I  was.  But 
he  who  would  suspect  me  of  being  ill-disposed  toward 
my  strict  judges  would  be  profoundly  mistaken. 
They  were  perfectly  right,  perfectly  right.  As  people 
who  can  judge  things  and  events  only  by  their  ap- 
pearance, and  who  are  deprived  of  the  ability  to  pene- 
trate their  own  mysterious  being,  they  could  not  act 
differently,  nor  should  they  have  acted  differently. 

It  so  happened  that  in  the  game  of  circumstances, 
the  truth  concerning  my  actions,  which  I  alone  knew, 
assumed  all  the  features  of  an  insolent  and  shameless 
lie ;  and  however  strange  it  may  seem  to  my  kind  and 
serious  reader,  I  could  establish  the  truth  of  my  inno- 
cence only  by  falsehood,  and  not  by  the  truth. 

Later  on,  when  I  was  already  in  prison,  in  going 
over  in  detail  the  story  of  the  crime  and  the  trial,  and 
picturing  myself  in  the  place  of  one  of  my  judges,  I 
came  to  the  inevitable  conclusion  each  time  that  I  was 
guilty.  Then  I  produced  a  very  interesting  and  in- 
structive work;  having  set  aside  entirely  the  question 
of  truth  and  falsehood  on  general  principles,  I  sub- 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      271 

jected  the  facts  and  the  words  to  numerous  combina- 
tions, erecting  structures,  even  as  small  children  build 
various  structures  with  their  wooden  blocks ;  and  after 
persistent  efforts  I  finally  succeeded  in  finding  a  cer- 
tain combination  of  facts  which,  though  strong  in 
principle,  seemed  so  plausible  that  my  actual  inno- 
cence became  perfectly  clear,  exactly  and  positively 
established. 

To  this  day  I  remember  the  great  feeling  of  aston- 
ishment, mingled  with  fear,  which  I  experienced  at  my 
strange  and  unexpected  discovery ;  by  telling  the  truth 
I  lead  people  into  error  and  thus  deceive  them,  while 
by  maintaining  falsehood  I  lead  them,  on  the  contrary, 
to  the  truth  and  to  knowledge. 

I  did  not  yet  understand  at  that  time  that,  like  New- 
ton and  his  famous  apple,  I  discovered  unexpectedly 
the  great  law  upon  which  the  entire  history  of  hu- 
man thought  rests,  which  seeks  not  the  truth,  but 
verisimilitude,  the  appearance  of  truth — that  is,  the 
harmony  between  that  which  is  seen  and  that  which 
is  conceived,  based  on  the  strict  laws  of  logical  reason- 
ing. And  instead  of  rejoicing,  I  exclaimed  in  an  out- 
burst of  naive,  juvenile  despair:  ** Where,  then,  is 
the  truth?  Where  is  the  truth  in  this  world  of 
phantoms  and  falsehood?"  (See  my  "Diary  of  a 
Prisoner"  of  June  29,  18—.) 

I  know  that  at  the  present  time,  when  I  have  but 
five  or  six  more  years  to  live,  I  could  easily  secure  my 
pardon  if  I  but  asked  for  it.  But  aside  from  my  being 
accustomed  to  the  prison  and  for  several  other  im- 
portant reasons,  of  which  I  shall  speak  later,  I  simply 


272  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

have  no  right  to  ask  for  pardon,  and  thus  break  the 
force  and  natural  course  of  the  lawful  and  entirely 
justified  verdict.  Nor  would  I  want  to  hear  people 
apply  to  me  the  words,  "a  victim  of  judicial  error," 
as  some  of  my  gentle  visitors  expressed  themselves,  to 
my  sorrow.  I  repeat,  there  was  no  error,  nor  could 
there  be  any  error  in  a  case  in  which  a  combination  of 
definite  circumstances  inevitably  lead  a  normally  con- 
structed and  developed  mind  to  the  one  and  only  con- 
clusion. 

I  was  convicted  justly,  although  I  did  not  commit 
the  crime — such  is  the  simple  and  clear  truth,  and  I 
live  joyously  and  peacefully  my  last  few  years  on  earth 
with  a  sense  of  respect  for  this  truth. 

The  only  purpose  by  which  I  was  guided  in  writing 
these  modest  notes  is  to  show  to  my  indulgent  reader 
that  under  the  most  painful  conditions,  where  it  would 
seem  that  there  remains  no  room  for  hope  or  life — a 
human  being,  a  being  of  the  highest  order,  possessing  a 
mind  and  a  will,  finds  both  hope  and  life.  I  want  to 
show  how  a  human  being,  condemned  to  death,  looked 
with  free  eyes  upon  the  world,  through  the  grated 
window  of  his  prison,  and  discovered  the  great  pur- 
pose, harmony,  and  beauty  of  the  universe — to  the  dis- 
grace of  those  fools  who,  being  free,  living  a  life  of 
plenty  and  happiness,  slander  life  disgustingly. 

Some  of  my  visitors  reproach  me  for  being 
"haughty";  they  ask  me  where  I  secured  the  right  to 
teach  and  to  preach;  cruel  in  their  reasoning,  they 
would  like  to  drive  away  even  the  smile  from  the  face 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      273 

of  the  man  who  has  been  imprisoned  for  life  as  a 
murderer. 

No.  Just  as  the  kind  and  bright  smile  will  not  leave 
my  lips,  as  an  evidence  of  a  clear  and  unstained  con- 
science, so  my  soul  will  never  be  darkened,  my  soul, 
which  has  passed  firmly  through  the  defiles  of  life, 
which  has  been  carried  by  a  mighty  will  power  across 
these  terrible  abysses  and  bottomless  pits,  where  so 
many  daring  people  have  found  their  heroic,  but,  alas ! 
fruitless,  death. 

And  if  the  tone  of  my  confessions  may  sometimes 
seem  too  positive  to  my  indulgent  reader,  it  is  not  at 
all  due  to  the  absence  of  modesty  in  me,  but  it  is  due 
to  the  fact  that  I  firmly  believe  that  I  am  right,  and 
also  to  my  firm  desire  to  be  useful  to  my  neighbour  as 
far  as  my  faiut  powers  permit. 

Here  I  must  apologise  for  my  frequent  references 
to  my  *  *  Diary  of  a  Prisoner, ' '  which  is  unknown  to  the 
reader;  but  the  fact  is  that  I  consider  the  complete 
publication  of  my  ''Diary"  too  premature  and  perhaps 
even  dangerous.  Begun  during  the  remote  period  of 
cruel  disillusions,  of  the  shipwreck  of  all  my  beliefs 
and  hopes,  breathing  boundless  despair,  my  note  book 
bears  evidence  in  places  that  its  author  was,  if  not  in  a 
state  of  complete  insanity,  on  the  brink  of  insanity. 
And  if  we  recall  how  contagious  that  illness  is,  my 
caution  in  the  use  of  my  "Diary"  will  become  entirely 
clear. 

0,  blooming  youth !  With  an  involuntary  tear  in 
my  eye  I  recall  your  magnificent  dreams,  your  daring 


274  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

visions  and  outbursts,  your  impetuous,  seething  power 
— but  I  should  not  want  your  return,  blooming  youth ! 
Only  with  the  greyness  of  the  hair  comes  clear  wis- 
dom, and  that  great  aptitude  for  unprejudiced  re- 
flection which  makes  of  all  old  men  philosophers  and 
often  even  sages. 


CHAPTER  II 

THOSE  of  my  kind  visitors  who  honour  me  by 
expressing  their  delight  and  even — may  this 
little  indiscretion  be  forgiven  me! — even 
their  adoration  of  my  spiritual  clearness,  can  hardly 
imagine  what  I  was  when  I  came  to  this  prison.  The 
tens  of  years  which  have  passed  over  my  head  and 
which  have  whitened  my  hair  cannot  muffle  the  slight 
agitation  which  I  experience  at  the  recollection  of  the 
first  moments  when,  with  the  creaking  of  the  rusty 
hinges,  the  fatal  prison  doors  opened  and  then  closed 
behind  me  forever. 

Not  endowed  with  literary  talent,  which  in  reality 
is  an  indomitable  inclination  to  invent  and  to  lie,  I 
shall  attempt  to  introduce  myself  to  my  indulgent 
reader  exactly  as  I  was  at  that  remote  time. 

I  was  a  young  man,  twenty-seven  years  of  age — as  I 
had  occasion  to  mention  before — unrestrained,  impetu- 
ous, given  to  abrupt  deviations.  A  certain  dreami- 
ness, peculiar  to  my  age ;  a  self-respect  which  was  eas- 
ily offended  and  which  revolted  at  the  slightest  insig- 
nificant provocation ;  a  passionate  impetuosity  in  solv- 
ing world  problems;  fits  of  melancholy  alternated  by 
equally  wild  fits  of  merriment — all  this  gave  the  young 
mathematician  a  character  of  extreme  unsteadiness, 
of  sad  and  harsh  discord. 

275 


276  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

I  must  also  mention  the  extreme  pride,  a  family 
trait,  which  I  inherited  from  my  mother,  and  which 
often  hindered  me  from  taking  the  advice  of  riper  and 
more  experienced  people  than  myself ;  also  my  extreme 
obstinacy  in  carrying  out  my  purposes,  a  good  quality 
in  itself,  which  becomes  dangerous,  however,  when  the 
purpose  in  question  is  not  sufficiently  well  founded  and 
considered. 

Thus,  during  the  first  days  of  my  confinement,  I  be- 
haved like  all  other  fools  who  are  thrown  into  prison. 
I  shouted  loudly  and,  of  course,  vainly  about  my  inno- 
cence; I  demanded  violently  my  immediate  freedom 
and  even  beat  against  the  door  and  the  walls  with 
my  fists.  The  door  and  the  walls  naturally  remained 
mute,  while  I  caused  myself  a  rather  sharp  pain.  I  re- 
member I  even  beat  my  head  against  the  wall,  and  for 
hours  I  lay  unconscious  on  the  stone  floor  of  my  cell ; 
and  for  some  time,  when  I  had  grown  desperate,  I 
refused  food,  until  the  persistent  demands  of  my  or- 
ganism defeated  my  obstinacy. 

I  cursed  my  judges  and  threatened  them  with  merci- 
less vengeance.  At  last  I  commenced  to  regard  all 
human  life,  the  whole  world,  even  Heaven,  as  an 
enormous  injustice,  a  derision  and  a  mockery.  For- 
getting that  in  my  position  I  could  hardly  be  unpreju- 
diced, I  came  with  the  self-confidence  of  youth,  with 
the  sickly  pain  of  a  prisoner,  gradually  to  the  complete 
negation  of  life  and  its  great  meaning. 

Those  were  indeed  terrible  days  and  nights,  when, 
crushed  by  the  walls,  getting  no  answer  to  any  of  my 
questions,  I  paced  my  cell  endlessly  and  hurled  one 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      277 

after  another  into  the  dark  abyss  all  the  great  valu- 
ables which  life  has  bestowed  upon  us :  friendship,  love, 
reason  and  justice. 

In  some  justification  to  myself  I  may  mention  the 
fact  that  during  the  first  and  most  painful  years  of 
my  imprisonment  a  series  of  events  happened  which 
reflected  themselves  rather  painfully  upon  my  psychic 
nature.  Thus  I  learned  with  the  profoundest  indigna- 
tion that  the  girl,  whose  name  I  shall  not  mention  and 
who  was  to  become  my  wife,  married  another  man. 
She  was  one  of  the  few  who  believed  in  my  innocence ; 
at  the  last  parting  she  swore  to  me  to  remain  faithful 
to  me  unto  death,  and  rather  to  die  than  betray  her 
love  for  me — and  within  one  year  after  that  she  mar- 
ried a  man  I  knew,  who  possessed  certain  good  quali- 
ties, but  who  was  not  at  all  a  sensible  man.  I  did  not 
want  to  understand  at  that  time  that  such  a  marriage 
was  natural  on  the  part  of  a  young,  healthy,  and  beau- 
tiful girl.  But,  alas !  we  all  forget  our  natural  science 
when  we  are  deceived  by  the  woman  we  love — ^may  this 
little  jest  be  forgiven  me !  At  the  present  time  Mme. 
N.  is  a  happy  and  respected  mother,  and  this  proves 
better  than  anything  else  how  wise  and  entirely  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  demands  of  nature  and  life  was  her 
marriage  at  that  time,  which  vexed  me  so  painfully. 

I  must  confess,  however,  that  at  that  time  I  was  not 
at  all  calm.  Her  exceedingly  amiable  and  kind  letter 
in  which  she  notified  me  of  her  marriage,  expressing 
profound  regret  that  changed  circumstances  and  a  sud- 
denly awakened  love  compelled  her  to  break  her  prom- 
ise to  me — that  amiable,  truthful  letter,  scented  with 


278  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

perfume,  bearing  the  traces  of  her  tender  fingers, 
seemed  to  me  a  message  from  the  devil  himself. 

The  letters  of  fire  burned  my  exhausted  brains,  and 
in  a  wild  ecstasy  I  shook  the  doors  of  my  cell  and  called 
violently : 

* '  Come !  Let  me  look  into  your  lying  eyes !  Let  me 
hear  your  lying  voice!  Let  me  but  touch  with  my 
fingers  your  tender  throat  and  pour  into  your  death 
rattle  my  last  bitter  laugh ! " 

From  this  quotation  my  indulgent  reader  will  see 
how  right  were  the  judges  who  convicted  me  for  mur- 
der; they  had  really  foreseen  in  me  a  murderer. 

My  gloomy  view  of  life  at  the  time  was  aggravated 
by  several  other  events.  Two  years  after  the  marriage 
of  my  fiancee,  consequently  three  years  after  the  first 
day  of  my  imprisonment,  my  mother  died — she  died, 
as  I  learned,  of  profound  grief  for  me.  However 
strange  it  may  seem,  she  remained  firmly  convinced  to 
the  end  of  her  days  that  I  had  committed  the  mon- 
strous crime.  Evidently  this  conviction  was  an  inex- 
haustible source  of  grief  to  her,  the  chief  cause  of  the 
gloomy  melancholy  which  fettered  her  lips  in  silence 
and  caused  her  death  through  paralysis  of  the  heart. 
As  I  was  told,  she  never  mentioned  my  name  nor  the 
names  of  those  who  died  so  tragically,  and  she  be- 
queathed the  entire  enormous  fortune,  which  was  sup- 
posed to  have  served  as  the  motive  for  the  murder,  to 
various  charitable  organisations.  It  is  characteristic 
that  even  under  such  terrible  conditions  her  motherly 
instinct  did  not  forsake  her  altogether ;  in  a  postscript 
to  the  will  she  left  me  a  considerable  sum,  which  se- 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      279 

cures  my  existence  whether  I  am  in  prison  or  at 
large. 

Now  I  understand  that,  however  great  her  grief  may 
have  been,  that  alone  was  not  enough  to  cause  her 
death ;  the  real  cause  was  her  advanced  age  and  a  series 
of  illnesses  which  had  undermined  her  once  strong  and 
sound  organism.  In  the  name  of  justice,  I  must  say 
that  my  father,  a  weak-charactered  man,  was  not  at  all 
a  model  husband  and  family  man;  by  numerous  be- 
trayals, by  falsehood  and  deception  he  had  led  my 
mother  to  despair,  constantly  offending  her  pride  and 
her  strict,  unbribable  truthfulness.  But  at  that  time 
I  did  not  understand  it;  the  death  of  my  mother 
seemed  to  me  one  of  the  most  cruel  manifestations  of 
universal  injustice,  and  called  forth  a  new  stream  of 
useless  and  sacrilegious  curses. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  ought  to  tire  the  attention 
of  the  reader  with  the  story  of  other  events  of  a  simi- 
lar nature.  I  shall  mention  but  briefly  that  one  after 
another  my  friends,  who  remained  my  friends  from  the 
time  when  I  was  happy  and  free,  stopped  visiting  me. 
According  to  their  words,  they  believed  in  my  inno- 
cence, and  at  first  warmly  expressed  to  me  their  sym- 
pathy. But  our  lives,  mine  in  prison  and  theirs  at 
liberty,  were  so  different  that  gradually  under  the 
pressure  of  perfectly  natural  causes,  such  as  forgetful- 
ness,  official  and  other  duties,  the  absence  of  mutual  in- 
terests, they  visited  me  ever  more  and  more  rarely,  and 
finally  ceased  to  see  me  entirely.  I  cannot  recall  with- 
out a  smile  that  even  the  death  of  my  mother,  even  the 
betrayal  of  the  girl  I  loved  did  not  arouse  in  me  such  a 


280  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

hopelessly  bitter  feeling  as  these  gentlemen,  whose 
names  I  remember  but  vaguely  now,  succeeded  in 
wresting  from  my  soul. 

What  horror !  What  pain !  My  friends,  you  have 
left  me  alone !  My  friends,  do  you  understand  what 
you  have  done?  You  have  left  me  alone.  Can  you 
conceive  of  leaving  a  human  being  alone  ?  Even  a  ser- 
pent has  its  mate,  even  a  spider  has  its  comrade — and 
you  have  left  a  human  being  alone !  You  have  given 
him  a  soul — and  left  him  alone !  You  have  given  him 
a  heart,  a  mind,  a  hand  for  a  handshake,  lips  for  a 
kiss — and  you  have  left  him  alone !  What  shall  he  do 
now  that  you  have  left  him  alone  ? ' ' 

Thus  I  exclaimed  in  my  ' '  Diary  of  a  Prisoner, ' '  tor- 
mented by  woeful  perplexities.  In  my  juvenile  blind- 
ness, in  the  pain  of  my  young,  senseless  heart,  I  still 
did  not  want  to  understand  that  the  solitude,  of  which 
I  complained  so  bitterly,  like  the  mind,  was  an  advan- 
tage given  to  man  over  other  creatures,  in  order  to 
fence  around  the  sacred  mysteries  of  his  soul  from  the 
stranger's  gaze. 

Let  my  serious  reader  consider  what  would  have  be- 
come of  life  if  man  were  robbed  of  his  right,  of  his 
duty  to  be  alone.  In  the  gathering  of  idle  chatterers, 
amid  the  dull  collection  of  transparent  glass  dolls,  that 
kill  each  other  with  their  sameness;  in  the  wild  city 
where  all  doors  are  open,  and  all  windows  are  open — 
passers-by  look  wearily  through  the  glass  walls  and  ob- 
serve the  same  evidences  of  the  hearth  and  the  alcove. 
Only  the  creatures  that  can  be  alone  possess  a  face; 
>vbile  those  that  know  no  solitude — the  great,  blissful, 


**MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      281 

sacred  solitude  of  the  soul — ^have  snouts  instead  of 
faces. 

And  in  calling  my  friends  "perfidious  traitors"  I, 
poor  youth  that  I  was,  could  not  understand  the  wise 
law  of  life,  according  to  which  neither  friendship,  nor 
love,  nor  even  the  tenderest  attachment  of  sister  and 
mother,  is  eternal.  Deceived  by  the  lies  of  the  poets, 
who  proclaimed  eternal  friendship  and  love,  I  did  not 
want  to  see  that  which  my  indulgent  reader  observes 
from  the  windows  of  his  dwelling — how  friends,  rela- 
tives, mother  and  wife,  in  apparent  despair  and  in 
tears,  follow  their  dead  to  the  cemetery,  and  after  a 
lapse  of  some  time  return  from  there.  No  one  buries 
himself  together  with  the  dead,  no  one  asks  the  dead 
to  make  room  in  the  coffin,  and  if  the  grief-stricken 
wife  exclaims,  in  an  outburet  of  tears,  "Oh,  bury  me 
together  with  him ! ' '  she  is  merely  expressing  symboli- 
cally the  extreme  degree  of  her  despair — one  could 
easily  convince  himself  of  this  by  trying,  in  jest,  to 
push  her  down  into  the  grave.  And  those  who  restrain 
her  are  merely  expressing  symbolically  their  sympathy 
and  understanding,  thus  lending  the  necessary  aspect 
of  solemn  grief  to  the  funeral  custom, 

Man  must  subject  himself  to  the  laws  of  life,  not  of 
death,  nor  to  the  fiction  of  the  poets,  however  beautiful 
it  may  be.  But  can  the  fictitious  be  beautiful?  Is 
there  no  beauty  in  the  stern  truth  of  life,  in  the  mighty 
vrork  of  its  wise  laws,  which  subjects  to  itself  \inth 
great  disinterestedness  the  movements  of  the  heavenly 
luminaries,  as  well  as  the  restless  linking  of  the  tiny 
creatures  called  human  beings  ? 


nr 


CHAPTER  III 

HITS  I  lived  sadly  in  my  prison  for  five  or 
_        six  years. 

JL  The  first  redeeming  ray  flashed  upon  me 

when  I  least  expected  it. 

Endowed  with  the  gift  of  imagination,  I  made  my 
former  fiancee  the  object  of  all  my  thoughts.  She  be- 
came my  love  and  my  dream. 

Another  circumstance  which  suddenly  revealed  to 
me  the  ground  under  my  feet  was,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  the  conviction  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  my 
escape  from  prison. 

During  the  first  period  of  my  imprisonment,  I,  as  a 
youthful  and  enthusiastic  dreamer,  made  all  kinds  of 
plans  for  escape,  and  some  of  them  seemed  to  me  en- 
tirely possible  of  realisation.  Cherishing  deceptive 
hopes,  this  thought  naturally  kept  me  in  a  state  of 
tense  alarm  and  hindered  my  attention  from  concen- 
trating itself  on  more  important  and  substantial  mat- 
ters. As  soon  as  I  despaired  of  one  plan  I  created 
another,  but  of  course  I  did  not  make  any  progress — I 
merely  moved  within  a  closed  circle.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  mention  that  each  transition  from  one 
plan  to  another  was  accompanied  by  cruel  sufferings, 
w^hich  tormented  my  soul,  just  as  the  eagle  tortured  the 
body  of  Prometheus. 

282 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      283 

One  day,  while  staring  with  a  weary  look  at  the 
walls  of  my  cell,  I  suddenly  began  to  feel  how  irre- 
sistibly thick  the  stone  was,  how  strong  the  cement 
which  kept  it  together,  how  skilfully  and  mathemati- 
cally this  severe  fortress  was  constructed.  It  is  true, 
my  first  sensation  was  extremely  painful;  it  was,  per- 
haps, a  horror  of  hopelessness. 

I  cannot  recall  what  I  did  and  how  I  felt  during 
the  two  or  three  months  that  followed.  The  first  note 
in  my  diary  after  a  long  period  of  silence  does  not  ex- 
plain very  much.  Briefly  I  state  only  that  they  made 
new  clothes  for  me  and  that  I  had  grown  stout. 

The  fact  is  that,  after  all  my  hopes  had  been  aban- 
doned, the  consciousness  of  the  impossibility  of  my  es- 
cape once  for  all  extinguished  also  my  painful  alarm 
and  liberated  my  mind,  which  was  then  already  in- 
clined to  lofty  contemplation  and  the  joys  of  mathe- 
matics. 

But  the  following  is  the  day  I  consider  as  the  first 
real  day  of  my  liberation.  It  was  a  beautiful  spring 
morning  (May  6)  and  the  balmy,  invigourating  air 
was  pouring  into  the  open  window ;  while  walking  back 
and  forth  in  my  cell  I  unconsciously  glanced,  at  each 
turn,  with  a  vague  interest,  at  the  high  window,  where 
the  iron  grate  outlined  its  form  sharply  and  distinctly 
against  the  background  of  the  azure,  cloudless  sky. 

**Why  is  the  sky  so  beautiful  through  these  bars?" 
I  reflected  as  I  walked.  * '  Is  not  this  the  effect  of  the 
aesthetic  law  of  contrasts,  according  to  which  azure 
stands  out  prominently  beside  black?  Or  is  it  not, 
perhaps,  a  manifestation  of  some  other,  higher  law. 


284.  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER^ 

according  to  which  the  infinite  may  be  conceived  by  the 
human  mind  only  when  it  is  brought  within  certain 
boundaries,  for  instance,  when  it  is  enclosed  within  a 
square?" 

When  I  recalled  that  at  the  sight  of  a  wide  open  win- 
dow, which  was  not  protected  by  bars,  or  of  the  sky,  I 
had  usually  experienced  a  desire  to  fly,  which  was 
painful  because  of  its  uselessness  and  absurdity — I 
suddenly  began  to  experience  a  feeling  of  tenderness 
for  the  bars ;  tender  gratitude,  even  love.  Forged  by 
hand,  by  the  weak  human  hand  of  some  ignorant  black- 
smith, who  did  not  even  give  himself  an  account  of  the 
profound  meaning  of  his  creation ;  placed  in  the  wall 
by  an  equally  ignorant  mason,  it  suddenly  represented 
in  itself  a  model  of  beauty,  nobility  and  power.  Hav- 
ing seized  the  infinite  within  its  iron  squares,  it  be- 
came congealed  in  cold  and  proud  peace,  frightening 
the  ignorant,  giving  food  for  thought  to  the  intelli- 
gent and  delighting  the  sage! 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  order  to  make  the  further  narrative  clearer  to 
my  indulgent  reader,  I  am  compelled  to  say  a  few 
words  about  the  exclusive,  quite  flattering,  and, 
I  fear,  not  entirely  deserved,  position  which  I  occupy 
in  our  prison.  On  one  hand,  my  spiritual  clearness, 
my  rare  and  perfect  view  of  life,  and  the  nobility  of 
my  feelings,  which  impress  all  those  who  speak  to  me ; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  several  rather  unimportant 
favours  which  I  have  done  to  the  Warden,  have  given 
me  a  series  of  privileges,  of  which  I  avail  myself,  rather 
moderately,  of  course,  not  desiring  to  upset  the  general 
plan  and  system  of  our  prison. 

Thus,  during  the  weekly  visiting  days,  my  visitors 
are  not  limited  to  any  special  time  for  their  interviews, 
and  all  those  who  wish  to  see  me  are  admitted,  some- 
times forming  quite  a  large  audience.  Not  daring  to 
accept  altogether  the  assurances  made  somewhat  ironi- 
cally by  the  Warden,  to  the  effect  that  I  would  be  "the 
pride  of  any  prison,"  I  may  say,  nevertheless,  with- 
out any  false  modesty,  that  my  words  are  treated  with 
proper  respect,  and  that  among  my  visitors  I  number 
quite  a  few  warm  and  enthusiastic  admirers,  both  men 
and  women.  I  shall  mention  that  the  Warden  himself 
and  some  of  his  assistants  honour  me  by  their  visits, 
^rawing  from  me  strength  and  courage  for  the  purpose 


586  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

of  continuing  their  hard  work.  Of  course  I  use  the 
prison  library  freely,  and  even  the  archives  of  the 
prison ;  and  if  the  Warden  politely  refused  to  grant  my 
request  for  an  exact  plan  of  the  prison,  it  is  not  at  all 
because  of  his  lack  of  confidence  in  me,  but  because 
such  a  plan  is  a  state  secret.  .  .  . 

Our  prison  is  a  huge  five-story  building.  Situated 
in  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  at  the  edge  of  a  deserted 
field,  overgrown  with  high  grass,  it  attracts  the  atten- 
tion of  the  wayfarer  by  its  rigid  outlines,  promising 
him  peace  and  rest  after  his  endless  wanderings.  Not 
being  plastered,  the  building  has  retained  its  natural 
dark  red  colour  of  old  brick,  and  at  close  view,  I  am 
told,  it  produces  a  gloomy,  even  threatening,  impres- 
sion, especially  on  nervous  people,  to  whom  the  red 
bricks  recall  blood  and  bloody  lumps  of  human  flesh. 
The  small,  dark,  flat  windows  with  iron  bars  naturally 
complete  the  impression  and  lend  to  the  whole  a  char- 
acter of  gloomy  harmony,  or  stern  beauty.  Even  dur- 
ing good  weather,  when  the  sun  shines  upon  our 
prison,  it  does  not  lose  any  of  its  dark  and  grim  im- 
portance, and  is  constantly  reminding  the  people  that 
there  are  laws  in  existence  and  that  punishment  awaits 
those  who  break  them. 

My  cell  is  on  the  fifth  story,  and  my  grated  window 
commands  a  splendid  view  of  the  distant  city  and  a 
part  of  the  deserted  field  to  the  right.  On  the  left, 
beyond  the  boundary  of  my  vision,  are  the  outskirts 
of  the  city,  and,  as  I  am  told,  the  church  and  the 
cemetery  adjoining  it.  Of  the  existence  of  the  church 
and  even  the  cemetery  I  had  known  before  from  the 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      ^87 

mournful  tolling  of  the  bells,  which  custom  requires 
during  the  burial  of  the  dead. 

Quite  in  keeping  with  the  external  style  of  architec- 
ture, the  interior  arrangement  of  our  prison  is  also 
finished  harmoniously  and  properly  constructed.  For 
the  purpose  of  conveying  to  the  reader  a  clearer  idea 
of  the  prison,  I  will  take  the  liberty  of  giving  the  ex- 
ample of  a  fool  who  might  make  up  his  mind  to  run 
away  from  our  prison.  Admitting  that  the  brave  fel- 
low possessed  supernatural,  Herculean  strength  and 
broke  the  lock  of  his  room — what  would  he  find  ?  The 
corridor,  with  numerous  grated  doors,  which  could 
withstand  cannonading — and  armed  keepers.  Let  us 
suppose  that  he  kills  all  the  keepers,  breaks  all  the 
doors,  and  comes  out  into  the  yard — perhaps  he  may 
think  that  he  is  already  free.  But  what  of  the  walls  ? 
The  walls  which  encircle  our  prison,  with  three  rings 
of  stone? 

I  omitted  the  guard  advisedly.  The  guard  is  inde- 
fatigable. Day  and  night  I  hear  behind  my  doors  the 
footsteps  of  the  guard ;  day  and  night  his  eye  watches 
me  through  the  little  window  in  my  door,  controlling 
my  movements,  reading  on  my  face  my  thoughts,  my 
intentions  and  my  dreams.  In  the  daytime  I  could 
deceive  his  attention  with  lies,  assuming  a  cheerful  and 
carefree  expression  on  my  face,  but  I  have  rarely  met 
the  man  who  could  lie  even  in  his  sleep.  No  matter 
how  much  I  would  be  on  my  guard  during  the  day,  at 
night  I  would  betray  myself  by  an  involuntary  moan, 
by  a  twitch  of  the  face,  by  an  expression  of  fatigue  or 
grief,  or  by  other  manifestations  of  a  guilty  and  un- 


288  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

easy  conscience.  Only  very  few  people  of  unusual  will 
power  are  able  to  lie  even  in  their  sleep,  skilfully  man- 
aging the  features  of  their  faces,  sometimes  even  pre- 
serving a  courteous  and  bright  smile  on  their  lips,  when 
their  souls,  given  over  to  dreams,  are  quivering  from 
the  horrors  of  a  monstrous  nightmare — ^but,  as  excep- 
tions, these  cannot  be  taken  into  consideration.  I 
am  profoundly  happy  that  I  am  not  a  criminal,  that 
my  CQUscience  is  clear  and  calm. 

"Read,  my  friend,  read,"  I  say  to  the  watchful  eye 
as  I  lay  myself  down  to  sleep  peacefully.  "You  will 
not  be  able  to  read  anything  on  my  face ! ' ' 

And  it  was  I  who  invented  the  window  in  the  prison 
door. 

I  feel  that  my  reader  is  astonished  and  smiles  in- 
credulously, mentally  calling  me  an  old  liar,  but  there 
are  instances  in  which  modesty  is  superfluous  and  even 
dangerous.  Yes,  this  simple  and  great  invention  be- 
longs to  me,  just  as  Newton's  system  belongs  to  New- 
ton, and  as  Kepler's  laws  of  the  revolution  of  the 
planets  belong  to  Kepler. 

Later  on,  encouraged  by  the  success  of  my  invention, 
I  devised  and  introduced  in  our  prison  a  series  of  little 
innovations,  which  were  concerned  only  with  details; 
thus  the  form  of  chains  and  locks  used  in  our  prison 
has  been  changed. 

The  little  window  in  the  door  was  ray  invention, 
and,  if  any  one  should  dare  deny  this,  I  would  call 
him  a  liar  and  a  scoundrel. 

I  came  upon  this  invention  under  the  folloAving  cir- 
cumstances:   One  day,  during  the  roll  call,  a  certain 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      289 

prisoner  killed  with  the  iron  leg  of  his  bed  the  Inspec- 
tor who  entered  his  cell.  Of  course  the  rascal  was 
hanged  in  the  yard  of  our  prison,  and  the  administra- 
tion light  mindedly  grew  calm,  but  I  was  in  despair — 
the  great  purpose  of  the  prison  proved  to  be  wrong 
since  such  horrible  deeds  were  possible.  How  is  it  that 
no  one  had  noticed  that  the  prisoner  had  broken  off 
the  leg  of  his  bed  ?  How  is  it  that  no  one  had  noticed 
the  state  of  agitation  in  which  the  prisoner  must  have 
been  before  committing  the  murder  ? 

By  taking  up  the  question  so  directly  I  thus  ap- 
proached considerably  the  solution  of  the  problem; 
and  indeed,  after  two  or  three  weeks  had  elapsed  I 
arrived  simply  and  even  unexpectedly  at  my  great  dis- 
covery. I  confess  frankly  that  before  telling  my 
discovery  to  the  Warden  of  the  prison  I  experienced 
moments  of  a  certain  hesitation,  which  was  quite 
natural  in  my  position  of  prisoner.  To  the  reader 
who  may  still  be  surprised  at  this  hesitation,  knowing 
me  to  be  a  man  of  a  clear,  unstained  conscience,  I  will 
answer  by  a  quotation  from  my  "Diary  of  a  Pris- 
oner, ' '  relating  to  that  period : 

* '  How  difficult  is  the  position  of  the  man  who  is  con- 
victed, though  innocent,  as  I  am.  If  he  is  sad,  if  his 
lips  are  sealed  in  silence,  and  his  eyes  are  lowered, 
people  say  of  him :  '  He  is  repenting ;  he  is  suffering 
from  pangs  of  conscience. ' 

"  If  in  the  innocence  of  his  heart  he  smiles  brightly 
and  kindly,  the  keeper  thinks :  '  There,  by  a  false  and 
feigned  smile,  he  wishes  to  hide  his  secret.' 

"No  matter  what  he  does,  he  seems  guilty — such  is 


290  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

the  force  of  the  prejudice  against  which  it  is  neces- 
sary to  struggle.  But  I  am  innocent,  and  I  shall  be 
myself,  firmly  confident  that  my  spiritual  clearness 
will  destroy  the  malicious  magic  of  prejudice." 

And  on  the  following  day  the  Warden  of  the  prison 
pressed  my  hand  warmly,  expressing  his  gratitude  to 
me,  and  a  month  later  little  holes  were  made  in  all 
doors  in  every  prison  in  the  land,  thus  opening  a  field 
for  wide  and  fruitful  observation. 

The  entire  system  of  our  prison  life  gives  me  deep 
satisfaction.  The  hours  for  rising  and  going  to  bed, 
for  meals  and  walks  are  arranged  so  rationally,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  real  requirements  of  nature,  that 
soon  they  lose  the  appearance  of  compulsion  and  be- 
come natural,  even  dear  habits.  Only  in  this  way  can 
I  explain  the  interesting  fact  that  when  I  was  free  I 
was  a  nervous  and  weak  young  man,  susceptible  to 
colds  and  illness,  whereas  in  prison  I  have  grown  con- 
siderably stronger  and  that  for  my  sixty  years  I  am  en- 
jojdng  an  enviable  state  of  health.  I  am  not  stout,  but 
I  am  not  thin,  either ;  my  lungs  are  in  good  condition 
and  I  have  saved  almost  all  my  teeth,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  two  on  the  left  side  of  the  jaw;  I  am  good 
natured,  even  tempered;  my  sleep  is  sound,  almost 
without  any  dreams.  In  figure,  in  which  an  expres- 
sion of  calm  power  and  self-confidence  predominates, 
and  in  face,  I  resemble  somewhat  Michaelangelo's 
"Moses" — that  is,  at  least  what  some  of  my  friendly 
visitors  have  told  me. 

But  even  more  than  by  the  regular  and  healthy 
regime,  the  strengthening  of  my  soul  and  body  was 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      291 

helped  by  the  wonderful,  yet  natural,  peculiarity  of 
our  prison,  which  eliminates  entirely  the  accidental 
and  the  unexpected  from  its  life.  Having  neither  a 
family  nor  friends,  I  am  perfectly  safe  from  the 
shocks,  so  injurious  to  life,  which  are  caused  by  treach- 
ery, by  the  illness  or  death  of  relatives — let  my  in- 
dulgent reader  recall  how  many  people  have  perished 
before  his  eyes  not  of  their  own  fault,  but  because 
capricious  fate  had  linked  them  to  people  unworthy  of 
them.  Without  changing  my  feeling  of  love  into 
trivial  personal  attachments,  I  thus  make  it  free  for 
the  broad  and  mighty  love  for  all  mankind;  and  as 
mankind  is  immortal,  not  subjected  to  illness,  and  as 
a  harmonious  whole  it  is  undoubtedly  progressing 
toward  perfection,  love  for  it  becomes  the  surest  guar- 
antee of  spiritual  and  physical  soundness. 

My  day  is  clear.  So  are  also  my  days  of  the  future, 
which  are  coming  toward  me  in  radiant  and  even 
order.  A  murderer  will  not  break  into  my  cell  for  the 
purpose  of  robbing  me,  a  mad  automobile  will  not 
crush  me,  the  illness  of  a  child  will  not  torture  me, 
cruel  treachery  will  not  steal  its  way  to  me  from  the 
darkness.  My  mind  is  free,  my  heart  is  calm,  my 
soul  is  clear  and  bright. 

The  clear  and  rigid  rules  of  our  prison  define  every- 
thing that  I  must  not  do,  thus  freeing  me  from  those 
unbearable  hesitations,  doubts,  and  errors  with  which 
practical  life  is  filled.  True,  sometimes  there  pene- 
trates even  into  our  prison,  through  its  high  walls, 
something  which  ignorant  people  call  chance,  or  even 
Fate,  and  which  is  only  an  inevitable  reflection  of  the 


292  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

general  laws ;  but  the  life  of  the  prison,  agitated  for  a 
moment,  quickly  goes  back  to  its  habitual  rut,  like  a 
river  after  an  overflow.  To  this  category  of  accidents 
belong  the  above-mentioned  murder  of  the  Inspector, 
the  rare  and  always  unsuccessful  attempts  at  escape, 
and  also  the  executions,  which  take  place  in  one  of  the 
remotest  yards  of  our  prison. 

There  is  still  another  peculiarity  in  the  system  of 
our  prison,  which  I  consider  most  beneficial,  and  which 
gives  to  the  whole  thing  a  character  of  stern  and  noble 
justice.  Left  to  himself,  and  only  to  himself,  the 
prisoner  cannot  count  upon  support,  or  upon  that 
spurious,  wretched  pity  which  so  often  falls  to  the  lot 
of  weak  people,  disfiguring  thereby  the  fundamental 
purposes  of  nature. 

I  confess  that  I  think,  with  a  certain  sense  of  pride, 
that  if  I  am  now  enjoying  general  respect  and  admira- 
tion, if  my  mind  is  strong,  my  will  powerful,  my  view 
of  life  clear  and  bright,  I  owe  it  only  to  myself,  to  my 
power  and  my  perseverance.  How  many  weak  people 
would  have  perished  in  my  place  as  victims  of  mad- 
ness, despair,  or  grief?  But  I  have  conquered  every- 
thing !  I  have  changed  the  world.  I  gave  to  my  soul 
the  form  which  my  mind  desired.  In  the  desert,  work- 
ing alone,  exhausted  with  fatigue,  I  have  erected  a 
stately  structure  in  which  I  now  live  joyously  and 
calmly,  like  a  king.  Destroy  it — and  to-morrow  I 
shall  begin  to  build  a  new  structure,  and  in  my  bloody 
sweat  I  shall  erect  it !     For  I  must  live ! 

Forgive  my  involuntary  pathos  in  the  last  lines, 
which  is  so  unbecoming  to  my  balanced  and  calm 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      293 

nature.  But  it  is  hard  to  restrain  myself  when  I  re- 
call the  road  I  have  travelled.  I  hope,  however,  that 
in  the  future  I  shall  not  darken  the  mood  of  my  reader 
with  any  outbursts  of  agitated  feelings.  Only  he 
shouts  who  is  not  confident  of  the  truth  of  his  words ; 
calm  firmness  and  cold  simplicity  are  becoming  to  the 
truth. 

P.  S. — I  do  not  remember  whether  I  told  you  that 
the  criminal  who  murdered  my  father  has  not  been 
found  as  yet. 


CHAPTER  V 

DEVIATING  from  time  to  time  from  the  calm 
form  of  a  historical  narrative  I  must  pause 
on  current  events.  Thus  I  will  permit  my- 
self to  acquaint  my  readers  in  a  few  lines  with  a  rather 
interesting  specimen  of  the  human  species  which  I 
have  found  accidentally  in  our  prison. 

One  afternoon  a  few  days  ago  the  Warden  came  to 
me  for  the  usual  chat,  and  among  other  things  told 
me  there  was  a  very  unfortunate  man  in  prison  at  the 
time  upon  whom  I  could  exert  a  beneficent  influence. 
I  expressed  my  willingness  in  the  most  cordial  manner, 
and  for  several  days  in  succession  I  have  had  long  dis- 
cussions with  the  artist  K.,  by  permission  of  the 
Warden.  The  spirit  of  hostility,  even  of  obstinacy, 
with  which,  to  my  regret,  he  met  me  at  his  first  visit, 
has  now  disappeared  entirely  under  the  influence  of 
my  discussion.  Listening  willingly  and  with  interest 
to  my  ever  pacifying  words  he  gradually  told  me 
his  rather  unusual  story  after  a  series  of  persistent 
questions. 

He  is  a  man  of  about  twenty-six  or  twenty-eight,  of 
pleasant  appearance,  and  rather  good  manners,  which 
show  that  he  is  a  well-bred  man.  A  certain  quite  nat- 
ural unrestraint  in  his  speech,  a  passionate  vehemence 
with  which  he  talks  about  himself,  occasionally  a  bit- 

294 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      295 

ter,  even  ironical  laughter,  followed  by  painful  pen- 
siveness,  from  which  it  is  difficult  to  arouse  him  even 
by  a  touch  of  the  hand — these  complete  the  make-up 
of  my  new  acquaintance.  Personally  to  me  he  is  not 
particularly  sympathetic,  and  however  strange  it  may 
seem  I  am  especially  annoyed  by  his  disgusting  habit 
of  constantly  moving  his  thin,  emaciated  fingers  and 
clutching  helplessly  the  hand  of  the  person  with  whom 
he  speaks. 

K.  told  me  very  little  of  his  past  life. 

"Well,  what  is  there  to  tell?  I  was  an  artist,  that's 
all,"  he  repeated,  with  a  sorrowful  grimace,  and  re- 
fused to  talk  about  the  "immoral  act"  for  which  he 
was  condemned  to  solitary  confinement. 

"I  don't  want  to  corrupt  you,  grandpa — live  hon- 
estly," he  would  jest  in  a  somewhat  unbecoming 
familiar  tone,  which  I  tolerated  simply  because  I 
wished  to  please  the  Warden  of  the  prison,  having 
learned  from  the  prisoner  the  real  cause  of  his  suffer- 
ings, which  sometimes  assumed  an  acute  form  of  vio- 
lence and  threats.  During  one  of  these  painful  min- 
utes, when  K.'s  will  power  was  weak,  as  a  result  of 
insomnia,  from  which  he  was  suffering,  I  seated  my- 
self on  his  bed  and  treated  him  in  general  with 
fatherly  kindness,  and  he  blurted  out  everything  to 
me  right  there  and  then. 

Not  desiring  to  tire  the  reader  with  an  exact  repro- 
duction of  his  hysterical  outbursts,  his  laughter  and 
his  tears,  I  shall  give  only  the  facts  of  his  story. 

K.'s  grief,  at  first  not  quite  clear  to  me,  consists  of 
the  fact  that  instead  of  paper  or  canvas  for  his  draw- 


296  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

inga  he  was  given  a  large  slate  and  a  slate  pencil.  (By 
the  way,  the  art  with  which  he  mastered  the  material, 
which  was  new  to  him,  is  remarkable.  I  have  seen 
some  of  his  productions,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  they 
could  satisfy  the  taste  of  the  most  fastidious  expert 
of  graphic  arts.  Personally  I  am  indifferent  to  the  art 
of  painting,  preferring  live  and  truthful  nature.) 
Thus,  owing  to  the  nature  of  the  material,  before  com- 
mencing a  new  picture,  K.  had  to  destroy  the  previous 
one  by  wiping  it  off  his  slate,  and  this  seemed  to  lead 
him  every  time  to  the  verge  of  madness. 

**You  cannot  imagine  what  it  means,"  he  would  say, 
clutching  my  hands  with  his  thin,  clinging  fingers. 
"While  I  draw,  you  know,  I  forget  entirely  that  it  is 
useless ;  I  am  usually  very  cheerful  and  I  even  whistle 
some  tune,  and  once  I  was  even  incarcerated  for  that, 
as  it  is  forbidden  to  whistle  in  this  cursed  prison. 
But  that  is  a  trifle — for  I  had  at  least  a  good  sleep 
there.  But  when  I  finish  my  picture — no,  even  when 
I  approach  the  end  of  the  picture,  I  am  seized  with  a 
sensation  so  terrible  that  I  feel  like  tearing  the  brain 
from  my  head  and  trampling  it  with  my  feet.  Do 
you  understand  me?" 

"I  understand  you,  my  friend,  I  understand  you 
perfectly,  and  I  sympathise  with  you. ' ' 

*  *  Really  ?  Well,  then,  listen,  old  man.  I  make  the 
last  strokes  with  so  much  pain,  with  such  a  sense  of 
sorrow  and  hopelessness,  as  though  I  were  bidding 
good-bye  to  the  person  I  loved  best  of  all.  But  here 
I  have  finished  it.  Do  you  understand  what  it  means  ? 
It  means  that  it  has  assvwed  life,  that  it  Uvea,  that 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      297 

there  is  a  certain  mysterious  spirit  in  it.  And  yet  it 
is  already  doomed  to  death,  it  is  dead  already,  dead 
like  a  herring.  Can  you  understand  it  at  all? 
I  do  not  undei*stand  it.  And,  now,  imagine,  I — fool 
that  I  am — I  nevertheless  rejoice,  I  cry  and  rejoice. 
No,  I  think,  this  picture  I  shall  not  destroy;  it  is  so 
good  that  I  shall  not  destroy  it.  Let  it  live.  And  it 
is  a  fact  that  at  such  times  I  do  not  feel  like  drawing 
anything  new,  I  have  not  the  slightest  desire  for  it. 
And  yet  it  is  dreadful.    Do  you  understand  me  ? " 

**  Perfectly,  my  friend.  No  doubt  the  drawing 
ceases  to  please  you  on  the  following  day — " 

"Oh,  what  nonsense  you  are  prating,  old  man! 
(That  is  exactly  what  he  said.  *  Nonsense.')  How 
can  a  dying  child  cease  to  please  you?  Of  course,  if 
he  lived,  he  might  have  become  a  scoundrel,  but  when 
he  is  dying —  No,  old  man,  that  isn't  it.  For 
I  am  killing  it  myself.  I  do  not  sleep  all  night 
long,  I  jump  up,  I  look  at  it,  and  I  love  it  so  dearly 
that  I  feel  like  stealing  it.  Stealing  it  from  whom? 
What  do  I  know?  But  when  morning  sets  in  I  feel 
that  I  cannot  do  without  it,  that  I  must  take  up  that 
cursed  pencil  again  and  create  anew.  What  a  mock- 
ery!   To  create!    What  am  I,  a  galley  slave?" 

"My  friend,  you  are  in  a  prison." 

"My  dear  old  man !  When  I  begin  to  steal  over  to 
*he  slate  with  the  sponge  in  my  hand  I  feel  like  a 
murderer.  It  happens  that  I  go  around  it  for  a  day 
or  two.  Do  you  know,  one  day  I  bit  off  a  finger  of  my 
right  hand  so  as  not  to  draw  any  more,  but  that,  of 
course,  was  only  a  trifle,  for  I  started  to  learn  drawing 


298  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

with  my  left  hand.  What  is  this  necessity  for  creat- 
ing! To  create  by  all  means,  create  for  suffering — 
create  with  the  knowledge  that  it  will  all  perish !  Do 
you  understand  it  ? " 

"Finish  it,  my  friend,  don't  be  agitated ;  then  I  will 
expound  to  you  my  views." 

Unfortunately,  my  advice  hardly  reached  the  ears 
of  K.  In  one  of  those  paroxysms  of  despair,  which 
frighten  the  Warden  of  our  prison,  K.  began  to  throw 
himself  about  in  his  bed,  tear  his  clothes,  shout  and 
sob,  manifesting  in  general  all  the  symptoms  of  ex- 
treme mortification.  I  looked  at  the  sufferings  of  the 
unfortunate  youth  with  deep  emotion  (compared  with 
me  he  was  a  youth),  vainly  endeavouring  to  hold  his 
fingers  which  were  tearing  his  clothes.  I  knew  that 
for  this  breach  of  discipline  new  incarceration  awaited 
him. 

"O,  impetuous  youth,"  I  thought  when  he  had 
grown  somewhat  calmer,  and  I  was  tenderly  unfolding 
his  fine  hair  which  had  become  entangled,  ' '  how  easily 
you  fall  into  despair!  A  bit  of  drawing,  which 
may  in  the  end  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  dealer  in  old 
rags,  or  a  dealer  in  old  bronze  and  cemented  porcelain, 
can  cause  you  so  much  suffering ! ' '  But,  of  course,  I 
did  not  tell  this  to  my  youthful  friend,  striving,  as 
any  one  should  under  similar  circumstances,  not  to 
irritate  him  by  unnecessary  contradictions. 

"Thank  you,  old  man,"  said  K.,  apparently  calm 
now,  "To  tell  the  truth  you  seemed  very  strange  to 
me  at  first;  your  face  is  so  venerable,  but  your  eyes. 
Have  you  murdered  anybody,  old  man  ? ' ' 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      299 

I  deliberately  quote  the  malicious  and  careless 
phrase  to  show  how  in  the  eyes  of  lightminded  and 
shallow  people  the  stamp  of  a  terrible  accusation  is 
transformed  into  the  stamp  of  the  crime  itself.  Con- 
trolling my  feeling  of  bitterness,  I  remarked  calmly  to 
the  impertinent  youth : 

' '  You  are  an  artist,  my  child ;  to  you  are  known  the 
mysteries  of  the  human  face,  that  flexible,  mobile  and 
deceptive  masque,  which,  like  the  sea,  reflects  the 
hurrying  clouds  and  the  azure  ether.  Being  green, 
the  sea  turns  blue  under  the  clear  sky  and  black  when 
the  sky  is  black,  when  the  heavy  clouds  are  dark. 
What  do  you  want  of  my  face,  over  which  hangs  an 
accusation  of  the  most  cruel  crime  ? ' ' 

But,  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts,  the  artist  ap- 
parently paid  no  particular  attention  to  my  words 
and  continued  in  a  broken  voice : 

' '  What  am  I  to  do  ?  You  saw  my  drawing.  I  de- 
stroyed it,  and  it  is  already  a  whole  week  since  I 
touched  my  pencil.  Of  course,"  he  resumed  thought- 
fully, rubbing  his  brow,  "it  would  be  better  to  breeik 
the  slate;  to  punish  me  they  would  not  give  me 
another  one — " 

"You  had  better  return  it  to  the  authorities." 

* '  Very  well,  I  may  hold  out  another  week,  but  what 
then  ?  I  know  myself.  Even  now  that  devil  is  push- 
ing my  hand :     '  Take  the  pencil,  take  the  pencil. '  ' ' 

At  that  moment,  as  my  eyes  wandered  distractedly 
over  his  cell,  I  suddenly  noticed  that  some  of  the 
artist's  clothes  hanging  on  the  wall  were  unnaturally 
stretched,  and  on«  end  was  skilfully  fastened  by  the 


300  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

back  of  the  cot.  Assuming  an  air  that  I  was  tired  and 
that  I  wanted  to  walk  about  in  the  cell,  I  staggered  as 
from  a  quiver  of  senility  in  my  legs,  and  pushed  the 
clothes  aside.  The  entire  wall  was  covered  with  draw- 
ings! 

The  artist  had  already  leaped  from  his  cot,  and  thus 
we  stood  facing  each  othef  in  silence.  I  said  in  a  tone 
of  gentle  reproach : 

' '  How  did  you  allow  yourself  to  do  this,  my  friend  ? 
You  know  the  rules  of  the  prison,  according  to  which 
no  inscriptions  or  drawing  on  the  walls  are  per- 
missible ? ' ' 

"I  know  no  rules,"  said  K,  morosely. 

"And  then,"  I  continued,  sternly  this  time,  "you 
lied  to  me,  my  friend.  You  said  that  you  did  not  take 
the  pencil  into  your  hands  for  a  whole  week. ' ' 

' '  Of  course  I  didn  % '  *  said  the  artist,  with  a  strange 
smile,  and  even  a  challenge.  Even  when  caught  red- 
handed,  he  did  not  betray  any  signs  of  repentance,  and 
looked  rather  sarcastic  than  guilty.  Having  exam- 
ined more  closely  the  drawings  on  the  wall,  which 
represented  human  figures  in  various  positions,  I  be- 
came interested  in  the  strange  reddish-yellow  colour 
of  an  unknown  pencil. 

"Is  this  iodine?  You  told  me  that  you  had  a  pain 
and  that  you  secured  iodine." 

"No.    It  is  blood." 

*'Blood?" 

"Yes." 

I  must  say  frankly  that  I  even  liked  him  at  that 
moment. 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      301 

''How  did  you  get  it?'* 

"From  my  hand." 

"From  your  hand?  But  how  did  you  manage  to 
hide  yourself  from  the  eye  that  is  watching  you  ? ' ' 

He  smiled  cunningly,  and  even  winked. 

"Don't  you  know  that  you  can  always  deceive  if 
only  you  want  to  do  it  ? " 

My  sympathies  for  him  were  immediately  dispersed. 
I  saw  before  me  a  man  who  was  not  particularly 
clever,  but  in  all  probability  terribly  spoiled  already, 
who  did  not  even  admit  the  thought  that  there  are 
people  who  simply  cannot  lie.  Recalling,  however, 
the  promise  I  had  made  to  the  Warden,  I  assumed  a 
calm  air  of  dignity  and  said  to  him  tenderly,  as  only 
a  mother  could  speak  to  her  child : 

"Don't  be  surprised  and  don't  condemn  me  for 
being  so  strict,  my  friend.  I  am  an  old  man.  I  have 
passed  half  of  my  life  in  this  prison ;  I  have  formed 
certain  habits,  like  all  old  people,  and  submitting  to 
all  rules  myself,  I  am  perhaps  overdoing  it  somewhat 
in  demanding  the  same  of  others.  You  will  of  course 
wipe  off  these  drawings  yourself — although  I  feel 
sorry  for  them,  for  I  admire  them  sincerely — and  I 
will  not  say  anything  to  the  administration.  We  will 
forget  all  this,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Are  you 
satisfied?" 

He  answered  drowsily: 

"Very  well." 

"In  our  prison,  where  we  have  the  sad  pleasure  of 
being  confined,  everything  is  arranged  in  accordance 
with  a  most  purposeful  plan  and  is  most  strictly  sub- 


302  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

jected  to  laws  and  rules.  And  the  very  strict  order, 
on  account  of  which  the  existence  of  your  creations  is 
so  short  lived,  and,  I  may  say,  ephemeral,  is  full  of  the  , 
profoundest  wisdom.  Allowing  you  to  perfect  your- 
self in  your  art,  it  wisely  guards  other  people  against 
the  perhaps  injurious  influence  of  your  productions, 
and  in  any  case  it  completes  logically,  finishes,  en- 
forces, and  makes  clear  the  meaning  of  your  solitary 
confinement.  What  does  solitary  confinement  in  our 
prison  mean?  It  means  that  the  prisoner  should  be 
alone.  But  would  he  be  alone  if  by  his  productions 
he  would  communicate  in  some  way  or  other  with 
other  people  outside?" 

By  the  expression  of  K.'s  face  I  noticed  with  a 
sense  of  profound  joy  that  my  words  had  produced  on 
him  the  proper  impression,  bringing  him  back  from 
the  realm  of  poetic  inventions  to  the  land  of  stern  but 
beautiful  reality.    And,  raising  my  voice,  I  continued : 

* '  As  for  the  rule  you  have  broken,  which  forbids  any 
inscription  or  drawing  on  the  walls  of  our  prison,  it  is 
not  less  logical.  Years  will  pass ;  in  your  place  there 
may  be  another  prisoner  like  you — and  he  may  see  that 
which  you  have  drawn.  Shall  this  be  tolerated? 
Just  think  of  it !  And  what  would  become  of  the  walls 
of  our  prison  if  every  one  who  wished  it  were  to  leave 
upon  them  his  profane  marks?" 

*'To  the  devil  with  it!" 

This  is  exactly  how  K.  expressed  himself.  He  said 
it  loudly,  even  with  an  air  of  calmness. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  say  by  this,  my  youthful 
friend?" 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      303 

"I  wish  to  say  that  you  may  perish  here,  my  old 
friend,  but  I  shall  leave  this  place." 

"You  can't  escape  from  our  prison,"  I  retorted, 
sternly. 

"Have  you  tried?" 

"Yes,  I  have  tried." 

He  looked  at  me  incredulously  and  smiled.  He 
smiled ! 

"You  are  a  coward,  old  man.  You  are  simply  a 
miserable  coward." 

I — a  coward !  Oh,  if  that  self-satisfied  puppy  knew 
what  a  tempest  of  rage  he  had  aroused  in  my  soul  he 
would  have  squealed  for  fright  and  would  have  hidden 
himself  on  the  bed.  I — a  coward!  The  world  has 
crumbled  upon  my  head,  but  has  not  crushed  me,  and 
out  of  its  terrible  fragments  I  have  created  a  new 
world,  according  to  my  own  design  and  plan;  all  the 
evil  forces  of  life — solitude,  imprisonment,  treachery, 
and  falsehood — all  have  taken  up  arms  against  me,  but 
I  have  subjected  them  all  to  my  will.  And  I  who 
have  subjected  to  myself  even  my  dreams — I  am  a 
coward  ? 

But  I  shall  not  tire  the  attention  of  my  indulgent 
reader  with  these  lyrical  deviations,  which  have  no 
bearing  on  the  matter.     I  continue. 

After  a  pause,  broken  only  by  K.'s  loud  breathing, 
I  said  to  him  sadly : 

"I — a  coward!  And  you  say  this  to  the  man  who 
came  with  the  sole  aim  of  helping  you?  Of  helping 
you  not  only  in  word  but  also  in  deed  ? ' ' 

* '  You  wish  to  help  me  ?     In  what  way  ? ' ' 


304  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"I  will  get  you  paper  and  pencil." 

The  artist  was  silent.  And  his  voice  was  soft  and 
timid  when  he  asked,  hesitatingly : 

*'And — my  drawings — will  remain?" 

"Yes;  they  will  remain." 

It  is  hard  to  describe  the  vehement  delight  into 
which  the  exalted  young  man  was  thrown ;  naive  and 
pure-hearted  youth  knows  no  bounds  either  in  grief 
or  in  joy.  He  pressed  my  hand  warmly,  shook  me, 
disturbing  my  old  bones ;  he  called  me  friend,  father, 
even  "dear  old  phiz"  ( !)  and  a  thousand  other  en- 
dearing and  somewhat  naive  names.  To  my  regret 
our  conversation  lasted  too  long,  and,  notwithstanding 
the  entreaties  of  the  young  man,  who  would  not  part 
with  me,  I  hurried  away  to  my  cell. 

I  did  not  go  to  the  Warden  of  the  prison,  as  I  felt 
somewhat  agitated.  At  that  remote  time  I  paced  my 
cell  until  late  in  the  night,  striving  to  understand  what 
means  of  escaping  from  our  prison  that  rather  foolish 
young  man  could  have  discovered.  Was  it  possible  to 
run  away  from  our  prison?  No,  I  could  not  admit 
and  I  must  not  admit  it.  And  gradually  conjuring 
up  in  my  memory  everything  I  knew  about  our  prison, 
I  understood  that  K.  must  have  hit  upon  an  old  plan, 
which  I  had  long  discarded,  and  that  he  would  con- 
vince himself  of  its  impracticability  even  as  I  con- 
vinced myself.  It  is  impossible  to  escape  from  our 
prison. 

But,  tormented  by  doubts,  I  measured  my  lonely 
cell  for  a  long  time,  thinking  of  various  plans  that 
might  relieve  K.'s  position  and  thus  divert  him  from 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      305 

the  idea  of  making  his  escape.  He  must  not  run  away 
from  our  prison  under  any  circumstances.  Then  I 
gave  myself  to  peaceful  and  sound  sleep,  with  which 
benevolent  nature  has  rewarded  those  who  have  a  clear 
conscience  and  a  pure  soul. 

By  the  way,  lest  I  forget,  I  shall  mention  the  fact 
that  I  destroyed  my  "Diary  of  a  Prisoner"  that  night. 
I  had  long  wished  to  do  it,  but  the  natural  pity  and 
faint-hearted  love  which  we  feel  for  our  blunders  and 
our  shortcomings  restrained  me;  besides,  there  was 
nothing  in  my  ** Diary"  that  could  have  compromised 
me  in  any  way.  And  if  I  have  destroyed  it  now  it  is 
due  solely  to  my  desire  to  throw  my  past  into  oblivion 
and  to  save  my  reader  from  the  tediousness  of  long 
complaints  and  moans,  from  the  horror  of  sacrilegious 
cursings.    May  it  rest  in  peace! 


CHAPTER  VI 

HAVING  conveyed  to  the  "Warden  of  our 
prison  the  contents  of  my  conversation  with 
K.,  I  asked  him  not  to  punish  the  young  man 
for  spoiling  the  walls,  which  would  thus  betray  me, 
and  I,  to  save  the  youth,  suggested  the  following  plan, 
which  was  accepted  by  the  Warden  after  a  few  purely 
formal  objections. 

"It  is  important  for  him,"  I  said,  "that  his  draw- 
ings should  be  preserved,  but  it  is  apparently  immate- 
rial to  him  in  whose  possession  these  drawings  are.  Let 
him,  then,  avail  himself  of  his  art,  paint  your  portrait, 
Mr.  Warden,  and  after  that  the  portraits  of  the  entire 
staff  of  your  oflficials.  To  say  nothing  of  the  honour 
you  would  show  him  by  this  condescension — an  honour 
which  he  will  surely  know  how  to  appreciate — the 
painting  may  be  useful  to  you  as  a  very  original  orna- 
ment in  your  drawing  room  or  study.  Besides,  noth- 
ing will  prevent  us  from  destroying  the  drawings  if  we 
should  not  care  for  them,  for  the  naive  and  somewhat 
selfish  young  man  apparently  does  not  even  admit  the 
thought  that  anybody's  hand  would  destroy  his  pro- 
ductions. ' ' 

Smiling,  the  Warden  suggested,  with  a  politeness 
that  flattered  me  extremely,  that  the  series  of  portraits 
should  commence  with  mine.  I  quote  word  for  word 
that  which  the  Warden  said  to  me : 

306 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      307 

"Your  face  actually  calls  for  reproduction  on  can- 
vas.   We  shall  hang  your  portrait  in  the  office." 

The  zeal  of  creativeness — these  are  the  only  words 
I  can  apply  to  the  passionate,  silent  agitation  in  which 
K.  reproduced  my  features.  Usually  talkative,  he  now 
maintained  silence  for  hours,  leaving  unanswered  my 
jests  and  remarks. 

'*Be  silent,  old  man,  be  silent — you  are  at  your  best 
when  you  are  silent, ' '  he  repeated  persistently,  calling 
forth  an  involuntary  smile  by  his  zeal  as  a  pro- 
fessional. 

]\ry  portrait  would  remind  you,  my  indulgent 
reader,  of  that  mysterious  peculiarity  of  artists,  ac- 
cording to  which  they  very  often  transmit  their  own 
feelings,  even  their  external  features,  to  the  subject 
upon  which  they  are  working.  Thus,  reproducing 
with  remarkable  likeness,  the  lower  part  of  my  face, 
where  kindness  and  the  expression  of  authoritative- 
ness  and  calm  dignity  are  so  harmoniously  blended,  K. 
undoubtedly  introduced  into  my  eyes  his  own  suffer- 
ing and  even  his  horror.  Their  fixed,  immobile  gaze ; 
madness  glimmering  somewhere  in  their  depth;  the 
painful  eloquence  of  a  deep  and  infinitely  lonely  soul 
— all  that  was  not  mine. 

"Is  this  I?"  I  exclaimed,  laughing,  when  from  the 
canvas  this  terrible  face,  full  of  wild  contradictions, 
stared  at  me.  "My  friend,  I  do  not  congratulate  you 
on  this  portrait.     I  do  not  think  it  is  successful. ' ' 

"It  is  you,  old  man,  you!  It  is  well  drawn.  You 
criticise  it  wrongly.     Where  will  you  hang  it?" 

He  grew  talkative  again  like  a  magpie,  that  amiable 


308  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

young  man,  and  all  because  his  wretched  painting  was 
to  be  preserved  for  some  time.  O  impetuous,  0  happy 
youth !  Here  I  could  not  restrain  myself  from  a  lit- 
tle jest  for  the  purpose  of  teaching  a  lesson  to  the 
self-confident  youngster,  so  I  asked  him,  with  a  smile : 

"Well,  Mr.  Artist,  what  do  you  think?  Am  I 
murderer  or  not  ? ' ' 

The  artist,  closing  one  eye,  examined  me  and  the 
portrait  critically.  Then  whistling  a  polka,  he  an- 
swered recklessly :    *  *  The  devil  knows  you,  old  man ! ' ' 

I  smiled.  K.  understood  my  jest  at  last,  burst  out 
laughing  and  then  said  with  sudden  seriousness : 

"You  are  speaking  of  the  human  face  but  do  you 
know  that  there  is  nothing  worse  in  the  world  than  the 
human  face?  Even  when  it  tells  the  truth,  when  it 
shouts  about  the  truth,  it  lies,  it  lies,  old  man,  for  it 
speaks  its  own  language.  Do  you  know,  old  man,  a 
terrible  incident  happened  to  me?  It  was  in  one  of 
the  picture  galleries  in  Spain.  I  was  examining  a 
portrait  of  Christ,  when  suddenly — Christ,  you  under- 
stand, Christ — great  eyes,  dark,  terrible  suffering,  sor- 
row, grief,  love — well,  in  a  word — Christ.  Suddenly 
I  was  struck  with  something ;  suddenly  it  seemed  to  me 
that  it  was  the  face  of  the  greatest  wrongdoer,  tor- 
mented by  the  greatest  unheard-of  woes  of  repent- 
ance—  Old  man,  why  do  you  look  at  me  so!  Old 
man!" 

Nearing  my  eyes  to  the  very  face  of  the  artist,  I 
asked  him  in  a  cautious  whisper,  as  the  occasion  re- 
quired, dividing  each  word  from  the  other: 

"Don't  you  think  that  when  the  devil  tempted  Him 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      309 

in  the  desert  He  did  not  renounce  him,  as  He  said 
later^  but  consented,  sold  Himself — that  He  did  not 
renounce  the  devil,  but  sold  Himself.  Do  you  under- 
stand? Does  not  that  passage  in  the  Gospels  seem 
doubtful  to  you?" 

Extreme  fright  was  expressed  on  the  face  of  my 
young  friend.  Forcing  the  palms  of  his  hands  against 
my  chest,  as  if  to  push  me  away,  he  ejaculated  in  a 
voice  so  low  that  I  could  hardly  hear  his  indistinct 
words : 

"What?  You  say  Jesus  sold  Himself?  What 
for?" 

I  explained  softly : 

"That  the  people,  my  child,  that  the  people  should 
believe  Him." 

"Well?" 

I  smiled.  K.  *s  eyes  became  round,  as  if  a  noose  was 
strangling  him.  Suddenly,  with  that  lack  of  respect 
for  old  age  which  was  one  of  his  characteristics,  he 
threw  me  down  on  the  bed  with  a  sharp  thrust  and 
jumped  away  into  a  corner.  When  I  was  slowly  get- 
ting up  from  the  awkward  position  into  which  the  un- 
restraint of  that  young  man  had  forced  me — I  fell 
backward,  with  my  head  between  the  pillow  and  the 
back  of  the  bed — he  cried  to  me  loudly : 

"Don't  you  dare!  Don't  you  dare  get  up,  you 
Devil." 

But  I  did  not  think  of  rising  to  my  feet.  I  simply 
sat  down  on  the  bed,  and,  thus  seated,  with  an  in- 
voluntary smile  at  the  passionate  outburst  of  the 
youth,  I  shook  my  head  good  naturedly  and  laughed. 


310  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

*  *  Oh,  young  man,  young  man !  You  yourself  have 
drawn  me  into  this  theological  conversation." 

But  he  stared  at  me  stubbornly,  wide  eyed,  and 
kept  repeating: 

' '  Sit  there,  sit  there !    I  did  not  say  this.    No,  no ! " 

"You  said  it,  you,  young  man — ^you.  Do  you  re- 
member Spain,  the  picture  gallery !  You  said  it  and 
now  you  deny  it,  mocking  my  clumsy  old  age.     Oh ! ' ' 

K.  suddenly  lowered  his  hands  and  admitted  in  a 
low  voice: 

"Yes.    I  said  it.    But  you,  old  man — " 

I  do  not  remember  what  he  said  after  that — it  is  so 
hard  to  recall  all  the  childish  chatter  of  this  kind, 
but  unfortunately  too  light-minded  young  man.  I  re- 
member only  that  we  parted  as  friends,  and  he 
pressed  my  hand  warmly,  expressing  to  me  his  sin- 
cere gratitude,  even  calling  me,  so  far  as  I  can  re- 
member, his  "saviour." 

By  the  way,  I  succeeded  in  convincing  the  Warden 
that  the  portrait  of  even  such  a  man  as  I,  after  all  a 
prisoner,  was  out  of  place  in  such  a  solemn  official 
room  as  the  office  of  our  prison.  And  now  the 
portrait  hangs  on  the  wall  of  my  cell,  pleasantly 
breaking  the  cold  monotony  of  the  pure  white  walls. 

Leaving  for  a  time  our  artist,  who  is  now  carried 
away  by  the  portrait  of  the  Warden,  I  shall  continue 
my  story. 


CHAPTER  YII 

MY  spiritual  clearness,  as  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
informing  the  reader  before,  has  built  up 
for  me  a  considerable  circle  of  men  and 
women  admirers.  With  self-evident  emotion  I  shall 
tell  of  the  pleasant  hours  of  our  hearty  conversations, 
which  I  modestly  call  "My  talks." 

It  is  difficult  for  me  to  explain  how  I  deserved  it, 
but  the  majority  of  those  who  come  to  me  regard  me 
with  a  feeling  of  the  profouudest  respect,  even  adora- 
tion, and  only  a  few  come  for  the  purpose  of  arguing 
with  me,  but  these  arguments  are  usually  of  a  moder- 
ate and  proper  character.  I  usually  seat  myself  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  in  a  soft  and  deep  armchair, 
which  is  furnished  me  for  this  occasion  by  the  "War- 
den ;  my  hearers  surround  me  closely,  and  some  of 
them,  the  more  enthusiastic  youths  and  maidens,  seat 
themselves  at  my  feet. 

Having  before  me  an  audience  more  than  half  of 
which  is  composed  of  women,  and  entirely  disposed 
in  my  favour,  I  always  appeal  not  so  much  to  the 
mind  as  to  the  sensitive  and  truthful  heart.  Fortu- 
nately I  possess  a  certain  oratorical  power,  and  the 
customary  effects  of  the  oratorical  art,  to  which  all 
preachers,  beginning  in  all  probability  with  Moham- 
med, have  resorted,  and  which  I  can  handle  rather 

311 


312  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

cleverly,  allow  me  to  influence  my  hearers  in  the  de- 
sired direction.  It  is  easily  understood  that  to  the 
dear  ladies  in  my  audience  I  am  not  so  much  the  sage, 
who  has  solved  the  mystery  of  the  iron  grate,  as  a 
great  martyr  of  a  righteous  cause,  which  they  do  not 
quite  understand.  Shunning  abstract  discussions, 
they  eagerly  hang  on  every  word  of  compassion  and 
kindness,  and  respond  with  the  same.  Allowing  them 
to  love  me  and  to  believe  in  my  immutable  knowledge 
of  life,  I  afford  them  the  happy  opportunity  to  depart 
at  least  for  a  time  from  the  coldness  of  life,  from  its 
painful  doubts  and  questions. 

I  say  openly  without  any  false  modesty,  which  I 
despise  even  as  I  despise  hypocrisy,  there  were  lec- 
tures at  which  I  myself  being  in  a  state  of  exaltation, 
called  forth  in  my  audience,  especially  in  my  nervous 
lady  visitors,  a  mood  of  intense  agitation,  which 
turned  into  hysterical  laughter  and  tears.  Of  course 
I  am  not  a  prophet;  I  am  merely  a  modest  thinker, 
but  no  one  would  succeed  in  convincing  my  lady 
admirers  that  there  is  no  prophetic  meaning  and  sig- 
nificance in  my  speeches. 

I  remember  one  such  lecture  which  took  place  two 
months  ago.  The  night  before  I  could  not  sleep  as 
soundly  as  I  usually  slept ;  perhaps  it  was  simply  be- 
cause of  the  full  moon,  which  affects  sleep,  disturbing 
and  interrupting  it.  I  vaguely  remember  the  strange 
sensation  which  I  experienced  when  the  pale  crescent 
of  the  moon  appeared  in  my  window  and  the  iron 
squares  cut  it  with  ominous  black  lineg  into  small 
silver  squares.  .  ,  . 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      313 

"When  I  started  for  the  lecture  I  felt  exhausted 
and  rather  inclined  to  silence  than  to  conversation; 
the  vision  of  the  night  before  disturbed  me.  But  when 
I  saw  those  dear  faces,  those  eyes  full  of  hope  and 
ardent  entreaty  for  friendly  advice;  when  I  saw  be- 
fore me  that  rich  field,  already  ploughed,  waiting  only 
for  the  good  seed  to  be  sown,  my  heart  began  to  burn 
with  delight,  pity  and  love.  Avoiding  the  cus- 
tomary formalities  which  accompany  the  meetings  of 
people,  declining  the  hands  outstretched  to  greet  me, 
I  turned  to  the  audience,  which  was  agitated  at  the 
very  sight  of  me,  and  gave  them  my  blessing  with  a 
gesture  to  which  I  know  how  to  lend  a  peculiar 
majesty. 

"Come  unto  me,"  I  exclaimed;  "come  unto  me; 
you  who  have  gone  away  from  that  life.  Here,  in  this 
quiet  abode,  under  the  sacred  protection  of  the  iron 
grate,  at  my  heart  overflowing  with  love,  you  will 
find  rest  and  comfort.  My  beloved  children,  give 
me  your  sad  soul,  exhausted  from  suffering,  and  I 
shall  clothe  it  with  light.  I  shall  carry  it  to  those 
blissful  lands  where  the  sun  of  eternal  truth  and  love 
never  sets." 

Many  had  begun  to  cry  already,  but,  as  it  was  too 
early  for  tears,  I  interrupted  them  with  a  gesture  of 
fatherly  impatience,  and  continued: 

"You,  dear  girl,  who  came  from  the  world  which 
calls  itself  free — what  gloomy  shadows  lie  on  your 
charming  and  beautiful  face!  And  you,  my  daring 
youth,  why  are  you  so  pale?  "Why  do  I  see,  instead 
of  the  ecstasy  of  victory,  the  fear  of  defeat  in  your 


314  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

lowered  eyes  ?  And  you,  honest  mother,  tell  me,  what 
wind  has  made  your  eyes  so  red  ?  What  furious  rain 
has  lashed  your  wizened  face  ?  What  snow  has  whit- 
ened your  hair,  for  it  used  to  be  dark  ? ' ' 

But  the  weeping  and  the  sobs  drowned  the  end  of 
my  speech,  and  besides,  I  admit  it  without  feeling 
ashamed  of  it,  I  myself  brushed  away  more  than  one 
treacherous  tear  from  my  eyes.  Without  allowing  the 
agitation  to  subside  completely,  I  called  in  a  voice  of 
stem  and  truthful  reproach: 

**Do  not  weep  because  your  soul  is  dark,  stricken 
with  misfortunes,  blinded  by  chaos,  clipped  of  its 
wings  by  doubts;  give  it  to  me  and  I  shall  direct  it 
toward  the  light,  toward  order  and  reason.  I  know 
the  truth.  I  have  conceived  the  world!  I  have  dis- 
covered the  great  principle  of  its  purpose!  I  have 
solved  the  sacred  formula  of  the  iron  grate!  I  de- 
mand of  you — swear  to  me  by  the  cold  iron  of  its 
squares  that  henceforth  you  will  confess  to  me  without 
shame  or  fear  all  your  deeds,  your  errors  and  doubts, 
all  the  secret  thoughts  of  your  soul  and  the  dreams 
and  desires  of  your  body ! ' ' 

"We  swear!  We  swear!  We  swear!  Save  us! 
Reveal  to  us  the  truth !  Take  our  sins  upon  yourself ! 
Save  us!  Save  us!"  numerous  exclamations  re- 
sounded. 

I  must  mention  the  sad  incident  w^hich  occurred 
during  that  same  lecture.  At  the  moment  when  the 
excitement  reached  its  height  and  the  hearts  had  al- 
ready opened,  ready  to  unburden  themselves,  a  certain 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      315 

youth,  looking  morose  and  embittered,  exclaimed 
loudly,  evidently  addressing  himself  to  me: 
' '  Liar !  Do  not  listen  to  him.  He  is  lying ! '  * 
The  indulgent  reader  will  easily  believe  that  it  was 
only  by  a  great  effort  that  I  succeeded  in  saving  the 
incautious  youth  from  the  fury  of  the  audience.  Of- 
fended in  that  which  is  most  precious  to  a  human  be- 
ing, his  faith  in  goodness  and  the  divine  purpose  of 
life,  my  women  admirers  rushed  upon  the  foolish 
youth  in  a  mob  and  would  have  beaten  him  cruelly. 
Remembering,  however,  that  there  was  more  joy  to  the 
pastor  in  one  sinner  who  repents  than  in  ten  righteous 
men,  I  took  the  young  man  aside  where  no  one  could 
hear  us,  and  entered  into  a  brief  conversation  with 
him. 

"Did  you  call  me  a  liar,  my  child?" 
Moved  by  my  kindness,  the  poor  young  man  became 
confused  and  answered  hesitatingly: 

"Pardon  me  for  my  harshness,  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  you  are  not  telling  the  truth." 

"I  understand  you,  my  friend.  You  must  have 
been  agitated  by  the  intense  ecstasy  of  the  women, 
and  you,  as  a  sensible  man,  not  inclined  to  mysticism, 
suspected  me  of  fraud,  of  a  hideous  fraud.  No,  no, 
don't  excuse  yourself.  I  understand  you.  But  I 
wish  you  would  understand  me.  Out  of  the  mire  of 
superstitions,  out  of  the  deep  gulf  of  prejudices  and 
unfounded  beliefs,  I  want  to  lead  their  strayed 
thoughts  and  place  them  upon  the  solid  foundation  of 
strictly  logical  reasoning.     The  iron  grate,  which  I 


316  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

mentioned,  is  not  a  mystical  sign ;  it  is  only  a  formula, 
a  simple,  sober,  honest,  mathematical  formula.  To 
you,  as  a  sensible  man,  I  will  willingly  explain  this 
formula.  The  grate  is  the  scheme  in  which  are  placed 
all  the  laws  guiding  the  universe,  which  do  away 
with  chaos,  substituting  in  its  place  strict,  iron,  in- 
violable order,  forgotten  by  mankind.  As  a  bright- 
minded  man  you  will  easily  understand — " 

"Pardon  me.  I  did  not  understand  you,  and  if 
you  will  permit  me  I —  But  why  do  you  make  them 
swear  ? ' ' 

"My  friend,  the  soul  of  man,  believing  itself  free 
and  constantly  suffering  from  this  spurious  freedom, 
is  demanding  fetters  for  itself — to  some  these  fetters 
are  an  oath,  to  others  a  vow,  to  still  others  simply  a 
word  of  honour.  You  will  give  me  your  word  of 
honour,  will  you  not?" 

"I  will." 

"And  by  this  you  are  simply  striving  to  enter  the 
harmony  of  the  world,  where  everything  is  subjected 
to  a  law.  Is  not  the  falling  of  a  stone  the  fulfilment 
of  a  vow,  of  the  vow  called  the  law  of  gravitation  ? ' ' 

I  shall  not  go  into  detail  about  this  conversation 
and  the  others  that  followed.  The  obstinate  and  un- 
restrained youth,  who  had  insulted  me  by  calling  me 
liar,  became  one  of  my  warmest  adherents. 

I  must  return  to  the  others.  During  the  time  that 
I  talked  with  the  young  man,  the  desire  for  penitence 
among  my  charming  proselytes  reached  its  height. 
Not  patient  enough  to  wait  for  me,  they  commenced 
in  a  state  of  intense  ecstasy  to  confess  to  one  another. 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      317 

giving  to  the  room  an  appearance  of  a  garden  where 
dozens  of  birds  of  paradise  were  twittering  at  the  same 
time.  When  I  returned,  each  of  them  separately  un- 
folded her  agitated  soul  to  me.  .  .  . 

I  saw  how,  from  day  to  day,  from  hour  to  hour,  ter- 
rible chaos  was  struggling  in  their  souls  with  an  eager 
inclination  for  harmony  and  order;  how  in  the  bloody 
struggle  between  eternal  falsehood  and  immortal  truth, 
falsehood,  through  inconceivable  ways,  passed  into 
truth,  and  truth  became  falsehood.  I  found  in  the 
human  soul  all  the  forces  in  the  world,  and  none  of 
them  was  dormant,  and  in  the  mad  whirlpool  each 
soul  became  like  a  fountain,  whose  source  is  the 
abyss  of  the  sea  and  whose  summit  the  sky.  And 
every  human  being,  as  I  have  learned  and  seen,  is 
like  the  rich  and  powerful  master  who  gave  a  masquer- 
ade ball  at  his  castle  and  illuminated  it  with  many 
lights ;  and  strange  masks  came  from  everywhere  and 
the  master  greeted  them,  bowing  courteously,  and 
vainly  asking  them  who  they  were;  and  new,  ever 
stranger,  ever  more  terrible,  masks  were  arriving,  and 
the  master  bowed  to  them  ever  more  courteously,  stag- 
gering from  fatigue  and  fear.  And  they  were  laugh- 
ing and  whispering  strange  words  about  the  eternal 
chaos,  whence  they  came,  obeying  the  call  of  the  mas- 
ter. And  lights  were  burning  in  the  castle — and  in 
the  distance  lighted  windows  were  visible,  reminding 
him  of  the  festival,  and  the  exhausted  master  kept 
bowing  ever  lower,  ever  more  courteously,  ever  more 
cheerfully.  My  indulgent  reader  will  easily  under- 
stand that  in  addition  to  a  cert9,in  sense  of  fear  which 


318  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

I  experienced,  the  greatest  delight  and  even  joyous 
emotion  soon  came  upon  me — for  I  saw  that  eternal 
chaos  was  defeated  and  the  triumphant  hymn  of 
bright  harmony  was  rising  to  the  skies.  .  .  . 

Not  without  a  sense  of  pride  I  shall  mention  the 
modest  offerings  by  which  my  kind  admirers  were 
striving  to  express  to  me  their  feelings  of  love  and 
adoration.  I  am  not  afraid  of  calling  out  a  smile  on 
the  lips  of  my  readers,  for  I  feel  how  comical  it  is — I 
will  say  that  among  the  offerings  brought  me  at  first 
were  fruit,  cakes,  all  kinds  of  sweet-meats.  But  I  am 
afraid,  however,  that  no  one  will  believe  me  when  I  say 
that  I  have  actually  declined  these  offerings,  preferring 
the  observance  of  the  prison  regime  in  all  its  rigidness. 

At  the  last  lecture,  a  kind  and  honourable  lady 
brought  me  a  basketful  of  live  flowers.  To  my  regret, 
I  was  compelled  to  decline  this  present,  too. 

"Forgive  me,  madam,  but  flowers  do  not  enter  into 
the  system  of  our  prison.  I  appreciate  very  much 
your  magnanimous  attention — I  kiss  your  hands, 
madam — "  I  said,  "but  I  am  compelled  to  decline  the 
flowers.  Travelling  along  the  thorny  road  to  self-re- 
nunciation, I  must  not  caress  my  eyes  with  the  ephem- 
eral and  illusionary  beauty  of  these  charming  lilies 
and  roses.     All  flowers  perish  in  our  prison,  madam." 

Yesterday  another  lady  brought  me  a  very  valuable 
crucifix  of  ivory,  a  family  heirloom,  she  said.  Not 
afflicted  with  the  sin  of  hypocrisy,  I  told  my  generous 
lady  frankly  that  I  do  not  believe  in  miracles. 

"But  at  the  same  time,"  T  said,  "T  regard  with  the 
profoundest  respect   Him  who  is  justly   called  the 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      319 

Saviour  of  the  world,  and  I  honour  greatly  His  services 
to  mankind. 

*'If  I  should  tell  you,  madam,  that  the  Gospel  has 
long  been  my  favourite  book,  that  there  is  not  a  day 
in  my  life  that  I  do  not  open  this  great  Book,  drawing 
from  it  strength  and  courage  to  be  able  to  continue  my 
hard  course — you  will  understand  that  your  liberal 
gift  could  not  have  fallen  into  better  hands.  Hence- 
forth, thanks  to  you,  the  sad  solitude  of  my  cell  will 
vanish ;  I  am  not  alone.     I  bless  you,  my  daughter." 

I  cannot  forego  mentioning  the  strange  thoughts 
brought  out  by  the  crucifix  as  it  hung  there  beside  my 
portrait.  It  was  twilight ;  outside  the  wall  the  bell  was 
tolling  heavily  in  the  invisible  church,  calling  the  be- 
lievers together ;  in  the  distance,  over  the  deserted  field, 
overgrown  with  high  grass,  an  unknown  wanderer  was 
plodding  along,  passing  into  the  unknown  distance, 
like  a  little  black  dot.  It  was  as  quiet  in  our  prison  as 
in  a  sepulchre.  I  looked  long  and  attentively  at  the 
features  of  Jesus,  which  were  so  calm,  so  joyous  com- 
pared with  him  who  looked  silently  and  dully  from  the 
wall  beside  Him.  And  with  my  habit,  formed  during 
the  long  years  of  solitude,  of  addressing  inanimate 
things  aloud,  I  said  to  the  motionless  crucifix : 

"Good  evening,  Jesus.  I  am  glad  to  welcome  You 
in  our  prison.  There  are  three  of  us  here:  You,  I, 
and  the  one  who  is  looking  from  the  wall,  and  I  hope 
that  we  three  will  manage  to  live  in  peace  and  in  har- 
mony. He  is  looking  silently,  and  You  are  silent,  and 
Your  eyes  are  closed — I  shall  speak  for  the  three  of  us, 
a  sure  sign  that  our  peace  will  never  be  broken." 


320  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

They  were  silent,  and,  continuing,  I  addressed  my 
speech  to  the  portrait : 

' '  Where  are  you  looking  so  intently  and  so  strangely, 
my  unknown  friend  and  roommate?  In  your  eyes  I 
see  mystery  and  reproach.  Is  it  possible  that  you  dare 
reproach  Him  ?    Answer ! ' ' 

And,  pretending  that  the  portrait  answered,  I  con- 
tinued in  a  different  voice  with  an  expression  of  ex- 
treme sternness  and  boundless  grief : 

"Yes,  I  do  reproach  Him.  Jesus,  Jesus!  Why  is 
Your  face  so  pure,  so  blissful  ?  You  have  passed  only 
over  the  brink  of  human  sufferings,  as  over  the  brink 
of  an  abyss,  and  only  the  foam  of  the  bloody  and  miry 
waves  have  touched  You.  Do  You  command  me,  a 
human  being,  to  sink  into  the  dark  depth?  Great  is 
Your  Golgotha,  Jesus,  but  too  reverent  and  joyous, 
and  one  small  but  interesting  stroke  is  missing — the 
horror  of  aimlessness ! ' ' 

Here  I  interrupted  the  speech  of  the  Portrait,  with 
an  expression  of  anger, 

"How  dare  you,"  I  exclaimed;  "how  dare  you 
speak  of  aimlessness  in  our  prison  ? ' ' 

They  were  silent ;  and  suddenly  Jesus,  without  open- 
ing His  eyes — He  even  seemed  to  close  them  more 
tightly — answered : 

"Who  knows  the  mysteries  of  the  heart  of  Jesus?" 

I  burst  into  laughter,  and  my  esteemed  reader  will 
easily  understand  this  laughter.  It  turned  out  that  I, 
a  cool  and  sober  mathematician,  possessed  a  poetic 
talent  and  could  compose  very  interesting  comedies. 

I  do  not  know  how  all  this  would  have  ended,  for  I 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      321 

had  already  prepared  a  thundering  answer  for  my 
roommate  when  the  appearance  of  the  keeper,  who 
brought  me  food,  suddenly  interrupted  me.  But  ap- 
parently my  face  bore  traces  of  excitement,  for  the 
man  asked  me  with  stern  sympathy : 

' '  Were  you  praying  ? ' ' 

I  do  not  remember  what  I  answered. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LAST  Sunday  a  great  misfortune  occurred  in 
our  prison:  The  artist  K.,  whom  the  reader 
knows  already,  ended  his  life  in  suicide  by 
flinging  himself  from  the  table  with  his  head  against 
the  stone  floor.  The  fall  and  the  force  of  the  blow 
had  been  so  skilfully  calculated  by  the  unfortunate 
young  man  that  his  skull  was  split  in  two.  The  grief 
of  the  Warden  was  indescribable.  Having  called  me 
to  the  office,  the  Warden,  without  shaking  hand_s  with 
me,  reproached  me  in  angry  and  harsh  terms  for  hav- 
ing deceived  him,  and  he  regained  his  calm,  only  after 
my  hearty  apologies  and  promises  that  such  accidents 
would  not  happen  again.  I  promised  to  prepare  a 
project  for  watching  the  criminals  which  would  render 
suicide  impossible.  The  esteemed  wife  of  the  Warden, 
whose  portrait  remained  unfinished,  was  also  grieved 
by  the  death  of  the  artist. 

Of  course,  I  had  not  expected  this  outcome,  either, 
although  a  few  days  before  committing  suicide,  K.  had 
provoked  in  me  a  feeling  of  uneasiness.  Upon  enter- 
ing his  cell  one  morning,  and  greeting  him,  I  noticed 
with  amazement  that  he  was  sitting  before  his  slate 
once  more  drawing  human  figures. 

"What  does  this  mean,  my  friend?"  I  inquired  cau- 
tiously. "And  how  about  the  portrait  of  the  second 
assistant  ? ' ' 

"The  devil  take  it!" 

322 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH" 

**But  you—" 

** The  devil  take  it!" 

After  a  pause  I  remarked  distractedly : 

"Your  portrait  of  the  Warden  is  meeting  with  great 
success.  Although  some  of  the  people  who  have  seen 
it  say  that  the  right  moustache  is  somewhat  shorter 
than  the  left— " 

"Shorter?" 

"Yes,  shorter.  But  in  general  they  find  that  you 
caught  the  likeness  very  successfully. ' ' 

K.  had  put  aside  his  slate  pencil  and,  perfectly  calm, 
said: 

' '  Tell  your  Warden  that  I  am  not  going  to  paint  that 
prison  riffraff  any  more." 

After  these  words  there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to 
do  but  leave  him,  which  I  decided  to  do.  But  the 
artist,  who  could  not  get  along  without  giving  vent  to 
his  effusions,  seized  me  by  the  hand  and  said  with  his 
usual  enthusiasm : 

"Just  think  of  it,  old  man,  what  a  horror!  Every 
day  a  new  repulsive  face  appears  before  me.  They  sit 
and  stare  at  me  with  their  froglike  eyes.  What  am  I 
to  do  ?  At  first  I  laughed — I  even  liked  it — but  when 
the  froglike  eyes  stared  at  me  every  day  I  was  seized 
with  horror.  I  was  afraid  they  might  start  to  quack — 
qua-qua ! ' ' 

Indeed  there  was  a  certain  fear,  even  madness,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  artist — ^the  madness  which  shortly  led 
him  to  his  untimely  grave. 

"Old  man,  it  is  necessary  to  have  something  beauti- 
ful.    Do  you  understand  me  ? " 


3U  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

' '  And  the  wife  of  the  Warden  ?  Is  she  not — ' ' 
I  shall  pass  in  silence  the  unbecoming  expressions 
with  which  he  spoke  of  the  lady  in  his  excitement.  1 
must,  however,  admit  that  to  a  certain  extent  the  artist 
was  right  in  his  complaints.  I  had  been  present  sev- 
eral times  at  the  sittings,  and  noticed  that  all  who  had 
posed  for  the  artist  behaved  rather  unnaturally.  Sin- 
cere and  naive,  conscious  of  the  importance  of  their 
position,  convinced  that  the  features  of  their  faces  per- 
petuated upon  the  canvas  would  go  down  to  posterity, 
they  exaggerated  somewhat  the  qualities  which  are  so 
characteristic  of  their  high  and  responsible  office  in 
our  prison.  A  certain  bombast  of  pose,  an  exagger- 
ated expression  of  stern  authority,  an  obvious  con- 
sciousness of  their  own  importance,  and  a  noticeable 
contempt  for  those  on  whom  their  eyes  were  directed — 
all  this  disfigured  their  kind  and  affable  faces.  But 
I  cannot  understand  what  horrible  features  the  artist 
found  where  there  should  have  been  a  smile.  I  was 
even  indignant  at  the  superficial  attitude  with  which 
an  artist,  who  considered  himself  talented  and  sensible, 
passed  the  people  without  noticing  that  a  divine  spark 
was  glimmering  in  each  one  of  them.  In  the  quest 
after  some  fantastic  beauty  he  light-mindedly  passed 
by  the  true  beauties  with  which  the  human  soul  is 
filled.  I  cannot  help  feeling  sorry  for  those  unfortu- 
nate people  who,  like  K.,  because  of  a  peculiar  con- 
struction of  their  brains,  always  turn  their  eyes  toward 
the  dark  side,  whereas  there  is  so  much  joy  and  light 
in  our  prison ! 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      325 

When  I  said  this  to  K.  I  heard,  to  my  regret,  the 
same  stereotyped  and  indecent  answer : 

"The  devil  take  it!" 

All  I  could  do  was  to  shrug  my  shoulders.  Suddenly 
changing  his  tone  and  bearing,  the  artist  turned  to  me 
seriously  with  a  question  which,  in  my  opinion,  was 
also  indecent : 

**Why  do  you  lie,  old  man?" 

I  was  astonished,  of  course. 

"Hie?" 

"Well,  let  it  be  the  truth,  if  you  like,  but  why? 
I  am  looking  and  thinking.  Why  did  you  say  that? 
Why?" 

My  indulgent  reader,  who  knows  well  what  the  truth 
has  cost  me,  will  readily  understand  my  profound  in- 
dignation. I  deliberately  mention  this  audacious  and 
other  calumnious  phrases  to  show  in  what  an  atmos- 
phere of  malice,  distrust,  and  disrespect  I  have  to  plod 
along  the  hard  road  of  suffering.     He  insisted  rudely : 

"I  have  had  enough  of  your  smiles.  Tell  me 
plainly,  why  do  you  speak  so?" 

Then,  I  admit,  I  flared  up : 

"You  want  to  know  why  I  speak  the  truth?  Be- 
cause I  hate  falsehood  and  I  commit  it  to  eternal 
anathema !  Because  fate  has  made  me  a  victim  of  in- 
justice, and  as  a  victim,  like  Ilim  who  took  upon  Him- 
self the  great  sin  of  the  world  and  its  great  sufferings, 
I  wish  to  point  out  the  way  to  mankind.  Wretched 
egoist,  3"ou  know  only  yourself  and  your  miserable  art, 
while  I  love  mankind." 


326  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

My  anger  grew.  I  felt  the  veins  on  my  forehead 
swelling. 

"Fool,  miserable  dauber,  unfortunate  schoolboy,  in 
love  with  colours!  Human  beings  pass  before  you, 
and  you  see  only  their  froglike  eyes.  How  did  your 
tongue  turn  to  say  such  a  thing?  Oh,  if  you  only 
looked  even  once  into  the  human  soul !  What  treas- 
ures of  tenderness,  love,  humble  faith,  holy  humility, 
you  would  have  discovered  there!  And  to  you,  bold 
man,  it  would  have  seemed  as  if  you  entered  a  tem- 
ple— a  bright,  illuminated  temple.  But  it  is  said  of 
people  like  you — 'do  not  cast  your  pearls  before 
swine.'  " 

The  artist  was  silent,  crushed  by  my  angry  and  un- 
restrained speech.     Finally  he  sighed  and  said: 

"Forgive  me,  old  man;  I  am  talking  nonsense,  of 
course,  but  I  am  so  unfortunate  and  so  lonely.  Of 
course,  my  dear  old  man,  it  is  all  true  about  the  divine 
spark  and  about  beauty,  but  a  polished  boot  is  also 
beautiful.  I  cannot,  I  cannot!  Just  think  of  it! 
How  can  a  man  have  such  moustaches  as  he  has  ?  And 
yet  he  is  complaining  that  the  left  moustache  is 
shorter ! ' ' 

He  laughed  like  a  child,  and,  heaving  a  sigh,  added: 

"I'll  make  another  attempt.  I  will  paint  the  lady. 
There  is  really  something  good  in  her.  Although  she 
is  after  all — a  cow." 

He  laughed  again,  and,  fearing  to  brush  away  with 
his  sleeve  the  drawing  on  the  slate,  he  cautiously  placed 
it  in  the  corner. 

Here  I  did  that  which  ray  duty  compelled  me  to  do. 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      327 

Seizing  the  slate,  I  smashed  it  to  pieces  with  a  power- 
ful blow.  I  thought  that  the  artist  would  rush  upon 
rae  furiously,  but  he  did  not.  To  his  weak  mind  my 
act  seemed  so  blasphemous,  so  supematurally  horrible, 
that  his  deathlike  lips  could  not  utter  a  word. 

"What  have  you  done?"  he  asked  at  last  in  a  low 
voice.     "You  have  broken  it?" 

And  raising  my  hand  I  replied  solemnly : 

' '  Foolish  youth,  I  have  done  that  which  I  would  have 
done  to  my  heart  if  it  wanted  to  jest  and  mock  me ! 
Unfortunate  youth,  can  you  not  see  that  your  art 
has  long  been  mocking  you,  that  from  that  slate  of 
yours  the  devil  himself  was  making  hideous  faces  at 
you?" 

"Yes.    The  devil!" 

' '  Being  far  from  your  wonderful  art,  I  did  not  un- 
derstand you  at  first,  nor  your  longing,  your  horror 
of  aimlessness.  But  when  I  entered  your  cell  to-day 
and  noticed  you  at  your  ruinous  occupation,  I  said  to 
myself:  It  is  better  that  he  should  not  create  at  all 
than  to  create  in  this  manner.     Listen  to  me. '  * 

I  then  revealed  for  the  first  time  to  this  youth  the 
sacred  formula  of  the  iron  grate,  which,  dividing  the 
infinite  into  squares,  thereby  subjects  it  to  itself.  K. 
listened  to  my  words  with  emotion,  looking  with  the 
horror  of  an  ignorant  man  at  the  figures  which  must 
have  seemed  to  him  to  be  cabalistic,  but  which  were 
nothing  else  than  the  ordinary  figures  used  in  mathe- 
matics. 

' '  I  am  your  slave,  old  man, '  *  he  said  at  last,  kissing 
my  hand  with  his  cold  lips. 


328  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"No,  you  will  be  my  favourite  pupil,  my  son.  I 
bless  you." 

And  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  artist  was  saved. 
True,  he  regarded  me  with  great  joy,  which  could 
easily  be  explained  by  the  extreme  respect  with  which 
I  inspired  him,  and  he  painted  the  portrait  of  the 
Warden's  wife  with  such  zeal  and  enthusiasm  that 
the  esteemed  lady  was  sincerely  moved.  And,  strange 
to  say,  the  artist  succeeded  in  making  so  strangely 
beautiful  the  features  of  this  woman,  who  was  stout 
and  no  longer  young,  that  the  Warden,  long  accus- 
tomed to  the  face  of  his  wife,  was  greatly  delighted  by 
its  new  expression.  Thus  everything  went  on 
smoothly,  when  suddenly  this  catastrophe  occurred, 
the  entire  horror  of  which  I  alone  knew. 

Not  desiring  to  call  forth  any  unnecessary  disputes, 
I  concealed  from  the  Warden  the  fact  that  on  the  eve 
of  his  death  the  artist  had  thrown  a  letter  into  my  cell, 
which  I  noticed  only  in  the  morning.  I  did  not  pre- 
serve the  note,  nor  do  I  remember  all  that  the  un- 
fortunate youth  told  me  in  his  farewell  message;  I 
think  it  was  a  letter  of  thanks  for  my  effort  to  save 
him.  He  wrote  that  he  regretted  sincerely  that  his 
failing  strength  did  not  permit  him  to  avail  himself 
of  my  instructions.  But  one  phrase  impressed  itself 
deeply  in  my  memory,  and  you  will  understand  the 
reason  for  it  when  I  repeat  it  in  all  its  terrifying 
simplicity. 

"I  am  going  away  from  your  prison,"  thus  read  the 
phrase. 

And  he  really  did  go  away.    Here  are  the  walls, 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      32d 

here  is  the  little  window  in  the  door,  here  is  our  prison, 
but  he  is  not  there ;  he  has  gone  away.  Consequently 
I,  too,  could  go  away.  Instead  of  having  wasted 
dozens  of  years  on  a  titanic  struggle,  instead  of  being 
tormented  by  the  throes  of  despair,  instead  of  growing 
enfeebled  by  horror  in  the  face  of  unsolved  mysteries, 
of  striving  to  subject  the  world  to  my  mind  and  my 
will,  I  could  have  climbed  the  table  and — one  instant 
of  pain — I  M'ould  be  free ;  I  would  be  triumphant  over 
the  lock  and  the  walls,  over  truth  and  falsehood,  over 
joys  and  sufferings.  I  will  not  say  that  I  had  not 
thought  of  suicide  before  as  a  means  of  escaping  from 
our  prison,  but  now  for  the  first  time  it  appeared  be- 
fore me  in  all  its  attractiveness.  In  a  fit  of  base  faint- 
heartedness, which  I  shall  not  conceal  from  my  reader, 
even  as  I  do  not  conceal  from  him  my  good  qualities ; 
perhaps  even  in  a  fit  of  temporary  insanity  I  momen- 
tarily forgot  all  I  Imew  about  our  prison  and  its  great 
purpose.  I  forgot — I  am  ashamed  to  say — even  the 
great  formula  of  the  iron  grate,  which  I  conceived  and 
mastered  with  such  difficulty,  and  I  prepared  a  noose 
made  of  my  towel  for  the  purpose  of  strangling  myself. 
But  at  the  last  moment,  when  all  was  ready,  and  it  was 
but  necessary  to  push  away  the  taburet,  I  asked  my- 
self, with  my  habit  of  reasoning  which  did  not  forsake 
me  even  at  that  time :  But  where  am  I  going  ?  The 
answer  was:  I  am  going  to  death.  But  what  is 
death  ?     And  the  answer  was :     I  do  not  know. 

These  brief  reflections  were  enough  for  me  to  come 
to  myself,  and  with  a  bitter  laugh  at  my  cowardice  I 
removed  the  fatal  noose  from  my  neck.    Just  as  I  had 


330  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

been  ready  to  sob  for  grief  a  minute  before,  so  now  I 
laughed — I  laughed  like  a  madman,  realising  that 
another  trap,  placed  before  me  by  derisive  fate,  had  so 
brilliantly  been  evaded  by  me.  Oh,  how  many  traps 
there  are  in  the  life  of  man !  Like  a  cunning  fisher- 
man, fate  catches  him  now  with  the  alluring  bait  of 
some  truth,  now  with  the  hairy  little  worm  of  dark 
falsehood,  now  with  the  phantom  of  life,  now  with 
the  phantom  of  death. 

My  dear  young  man,  my  fascinating  fool,  my  charm- 
ing silly  fellow — who  told  you  that  our  prison  ends 
here,  that  from  one  prison  you  did  not  fall  into  another 
prison,  from  which  it  will  hardly  be  possible  for  you 
to  run  away?  You  were  too  hasty,  my  friend,  you 
forgot  to  ask  me  something  else — I  would  have  told  it 
to  you.  I  would  have  told  you  that  omnipotent  law 
reigns  over  that  which  you  call  non-existence  and  death 
just  as  it  reigns  over  that  which  you  call  life  and 
existence.  Only  the  fools,  dying,  believe  that  they 
have  made  an  end  of  themselves — they  have  ended  but 
one  form  of  themselves,  in  order  to  assume  another 
form  immediately. 

Thus  I  reflected,  laughing  at  the  foolish  suicide,  the 
ridiculous  destroyer  of  the  fetters  of  eternity.  And 
this  is  what  I  said  addressing  myself  to  my  two  silent 
roommates  hanging  motionlessly  on  the  white  wall  of 
my  cell : 

*'I  believe  and  confess  that  our  prison  is  immortal. 
What  do  you  say  to  this,  my  friends  ? ' ' 

But  they  were  silent.  And  having  burst  into  good- 
natured  laughter —    What  quiet  roommates  I  have! 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      331 

I  undressed  slowly  and  gave  myself  to  peaceful  sleep. 
In  my  dream  I  saw  another  majestic  prison,  and  won- 
derful jailers  with  white  wings  on  their  backs,  and  the 
Chief  "Warden  of  the  prison  himself.  I  do  not  re- 
member whether  there  were  any  little  windows  in  the 
doors  or  not,  but  I  think  there  were.  I  recall  that 
something  like  an  angel 's  eye  was  fixed  upon  me  with 
tender  attention  and  love.  My  indulgent  reader  will, 
of  course,  guess  that  I  am  jesting.  I  did  not  dream  at 
all.    I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  dreaming. 

Without  hoping  that  the  Warden,  occupied  with 
pressing  official  affairs,  would  understand  me  thor- 
oughly and  appreciate  my  idea  concerning  the  impossi- 
bility of  escaping  from  our  prison,  I  confined  myself, 
in  my  report,  to  an  indication  of  several  ways  in  which 
suicides  could  be  averted.  With  magnanimous  short- 
sightedness peculiar  to  busy  and  trusting  people,  the 
Warden  failed  to  notice  the  weak  points  of  my  project 
and  clasped  my  hand  warmly,  expressing  to  me  his 
gratitude  in  the  name  of  our  entire  prison. 

On  that  day  I  had  the  honour,  for  the  first  time,  to 
drink  a  glass  of  tea  at  the  home  of  the  Warden,  in  the 
presence  of  his  kind  wife  and  charming  children,  who 
called  me  "Grandpa."  Tears  of  emotion  which  gath- 
ered in  my  eyes  could  but  faintly  express  the  feelings 
that  came  over  me. 

At  the  request  of  the  Warden's  wife,  w^ho  took  a 
deep  interest  in  me,  I  related  in  detail  the  story  of  the 
tragic  murders  which  led  me  so  unexpectedly  and  so 
terribly  to  the  prison.  I  could  not  find  expressions 
strong  enough — there  are  no  expressions  strong  enough 


33^  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

in  the  human  language — to  brand  adequately  the  un- 
known criminal,  who  not  only  murdered  three  helpless 
people,  but  who  mocked  them  brutally  in  a  fit  of  blind 
and  savage  rage. 

As  the  investigation  and  the  autopsy  showed,  the 
murderer  dealt  the  last  blows  after  the  people  had  been 
dead.  It  is  very  possible,  however — even  murderers 
should  be  given  their  due — that  the  man,  intoxicated 
by  the  sight  of  blood,  ceased  to  be  a  human  being  and 
became  a  beast,  the  son  of  chaos,  the  child  of  dark  and 
terrible  desires.  It  was  characteristic  that  the  mur- 
derer, after  having  committed  the  crime,  drank  wine 
and  ate  biscuits — some  of  these  were  left  on  the  table 
together  with  the  marks  of  his  blood-stained  fingers. 
But  there  was  something  so  horrible  that  my  mind 
could  neither  understand  nor  explain:  the  murderer, 
after  lighting  a  cigar  himself,  apparently  moved  by  a 
feeling  of  strange  kindness,  put  a  lighted  cigar  be- 
tween the  closed  teeth  of  my  father. 

I  had  not  recalled  these  details  in  many  years.  They 
had  almost  been  erased  by  the  hand  of  time,  and  now 
while  relating  them  to  my  shocked  listeners,  who  would 
not  believe  that  such  hororrs  were  possible,  I  felt 
my  face  turning  pale  and  my  hair  quivering  on  my 
head.  In  an  outburst  of  grief  and  anger  I  rose  from 
my  armchair,  and  straightening  myself  to  my  full 
height,  I  exclaimed : 

"Justice  on  earth  is  often  powerless,  but  I  implore 
heavenly  justice,  I  implore  the  justice  of  life  which 
never  forgives,  I  implore  all  the  higher  laws  under 
whose  authority  man  lives.    May  the  guilty  one  not 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      333 

escape  his  deserved  punishment!  His  punishment!" 
Moved  by  my  sobs,  my  listeners  there  and  then  ex- 
pressed their  zeal  and  readiness  to  work  for  my  libera- 
tion, and  thus  at  least  partly  redeem  the  injustice 
heaped  upon  me.  I  apologised  and  returned  to  my 
cell. 

Evidently  my  old  organism  cannot  bear  such  agita- 
tion any  longer;  besides,  it  is  hard  even  for  a  strong 
man  to  picture  in  his  imagination  certain  images  with- 
out risking  the  loss  of  his  reason.  Only  in  this  way 
can  I  explain  the  strange  hallucination  which  ap- 
peared before  my  fatigued  eyes  in  the  solitude  of  my 
cell.  As  though  benumbed  I  gazed  aimlessly  at  the 
tightly  closed  door,  when  suddenly  it  seemed  to  me 
that  some  one  was  standing  behind  me.  I  had  felt  this 
deceptive  sensation  before,  so  I  did  not  turn  around 
for  some  time.  But  when  I  turned  around  at  last  I 
saw — in  the  distance,  between  the  crucifix  and  my 
portrait,  about  a  quarter  of  a  yard  above  the  floor — 
the  body  of  my  father,  as  though  hanging  in  the  air. 
It  is  hard  for  me  to  give  the  details,  for  twilight  had 
long  set  in,  but  I  can  say  with  certainty  that  it  was  the 
image  of  a  corpse,  and  not  of  a  living  being,  although 
a  cigar  was  smoking  in  its  mouth.  To  be  more 
exact,  there  was  no  smoke  from  the  cigar,  but  a  faintly 
reddish  light  was  seen.  It  is  characteristic  that  I  did 
not  sense  the  odour  of  tobacco  either  at  that  time  or 
later — I  had  long  given  up  smoking.  Here — I  must 
confess  my  weakness,  but  the  illusion  was  striking — I 
commenced  to  speak  to  the  hallucination.  Advancing 
as  closely  as  possible — the  body  did  not  retreat  as  I 


334  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

approached,  but  remained  perfectly  motionless — ^I 
said  to  the  ghost : 

"I  thank  you,  father.  You  know  how  your  son  is 
suffering,  and  you  have  come — you  have  come  to  tes- 
tify to  my  innocence.  I  thank  you,  father.  Give  me 
your  hand,  and  with  a  firm  filial  hand-clasp  I  will  re- 
spond to  your  unexpected  visit.  Don 't  you  want  to  ? 
Let  me  have  your  hand.  Give  me  your  hand,  or  I  will 
call  you  a  liar  I" 

I  stretched  out  my  hand,  but  of  course  the  hallucina- 
tion did  not  deem  it  worth  while  to  respond,  and  I  was 
forever  deprived  of  the  opportunity  of  feeling  the 
touch  of  a  ghost.  The  cry  which  I  uttered  and  which 
so  upset  my  friend,  the  jailer,  creating  some  confusion 
in  the  prison,  was  called  forth  by  the  sudden  disap- 
pearance of  the  phantom — it  was  so  sudden  that  the 
space  in  the  place  where  the  corpse  had  been  seemed 
to  me  more  terrible  than  the  corpse  itself. 

Such  is  the  power  of  human  imagination  when,  ex- 
cited, it  creates  phantoms  and  visions,  peopling  the 
bottomless  and  ever  silent  emptiness  with  them.  It  is 
sad  to  admit  that  there  are  people,  however,  who  be- 
lieve in  ghosts  and  build  upon  this  belief  nonsensical 
theories  about  certain  relations  between  the  world 
of  the  living  and  the  enigmatic  land  inhabited  by  the 
dead.  I  understand  that  the  human  ear  and  eye  can 
be  deceived — but  how  can  the  great  and  lucid  human 
mind  fall  into  such  coarse  and  ridiculous  deception? 

I  asked  the  jailer : 

'  *  I  feel  a  strange  sensation,  as  though  there  were  the 
odour  of  cigar  smoke  in  my  cell.    Don 't  you  smell  it  ? " 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      335 

The  jailer  sniffed  the  air  conscientiously  and  replied : 

"No,  I  don't.    You  only  imagined  it." 

If  you  need  any  confirmation,  here  is  a  splendid 

proof  that  all  I  had  seen,  if  it  existed  at  all,  existed 

only  in  the  net  of  my  eye. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SOMETHING  altogether  unexpected  has  hap- 
pened; the  efforts  of  my  friends,  the  Warden 
and  his  wife,  were  crowned  with  success,  and 
for  two  months  I  have  been  free,  out  of  prison. 

I  am  happy  to  inform  you  that  immediately  upon 
my  leaving  the  prison  I  occupied  a  very  honourable 
position,  to  which  I  could  hardly  have  aspired,  con- 
scious of  my  humble  qualities.  ,  The  entire  press  met 
me  with  unanimous  enthusiasm.  Numerous  journal- 
ists, photographers,  even  caricaturists  (the  people  of 
our  time  are  so  fond  of  laughter  and  clever  witti- 
cisms), in  hundreds  of  articles  and  drawings  repro- 
duced the  story  of  my  remarkable  life.  With  striking 
unanimity  the  newspapers  assigned  to  me  the  name  of 
' '  Master, ' '  a  highly  flattering  name,  which  I  accepted, 
after  some  hesitation,  with  deep  gratitude.  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  is  worth  mentioning  the  few  hostile 
notices  called  forth  by  irritation  and  envy — a  vice 
which  so  frequently  stains  the  human  soul.  In  one  of 
these  notices,  which  appeared,  by  the  way,  in  a  very 
filthy  little  newspaper,  a  certain  scamp,  guided  by 
wretched  gossip  and  baseless  rumours  about  my  chats 
in  our  prison,  called  me  a  "zealot  and  liar."  En- 
raged by  the  insolence  of  the  miserable  scribbler,  my 
friends  wanted  to  prosecute  him,  but  I  persuaded 

336 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      337 

them  not  to  do  it.    Vice  \^  its  own  proper  punishment. 

The  fortune  which  my  kind  mother  had  left  me  and 
which  had  grown  considerably  during  the  time  I  was 
in  prison  has  enabled  me  to  settle  down  to  a  life  of 
luxury  in  one  of  the  most  aristocratic  hotels.  I  have  a 
large  retinue  of  servants  at  my  command  and  an  auto- 
mobile— a  splendid  invention  with  which  I  now  became 
acquainted  for  the  first  time — and  I  have  skilfully  ar- 
ranged my  financial  Ji^Tairs.  Live  flowers  brought  to 
me  in  abundance  by  my  charming  lady  visitors  give  to 
my  nook  the  appearance  of  a  flower  garden  or  even  a 
bit  of  a  tropical  forest.  ]\Iy  servant,  a  very  decent 
young  man,  is  in  a  state  of  despair.  He  says  that  he 
had  never  seen  such  a  variety  of  flowers  and  had  never 
smelled  such  a  variety  of  odours  at  the  same  time.  If 
not  for  my  advanced  age  and  the  strict  and  serious  pro- 
priety with  which  I  treat  my  visitors,  I  do  not  know 
how  far  they  would  have  gone  in  the  expression  of  their 
feelings.  How  many  perfumed  notes!  How  many 
languid  sighs  and  humbly  imploring  eyes !  There  was 
even  a  fascinating  stranger  with  a  black  veil — three 
times  she  appeared  mysteriously,  and  when  she  learned 
that  I  had  visitors  she  disappeared  just  as  mysteri- 
ously. 

I  will  add  that  at  the  present  time  I  have  had  the 
honour  of  being  elected  an  honourary  member  of 
numerous  humanitarian  organisations  such  as  "The 
League  of  Peace,"  "The  League  for  Combating  Ju- 
venile Criminality,"  "The  Society  of  the  Friends  of 
Man,"  and  others.  Besides,  at  the  request  of  the  edi- 
tor of  one  of  the  most  widely  read  newspapers,  I  am  to 


338  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

begin  next  month  a  series  of  public  lectures,  for  which 
purpose  I  am  going  on  a  tour  together  with  my  kind 
impresario. 

I  have  already  prepared  my  material  for  the  first 
three  lectures  and,  in  the  hope  that  my  reader  may  be 
interested,  I  shall  give  the  synopsis  of  these  lectures. 

First  Lecture 

Chaos  or  order?  The  eternal  struggle  between 
chaos  and  order.  The  eternal  revolt  and  the  defeat  of 
chaos,  the  rebel.    The  triumph  of  law  and  order. 

Second  Lecture 

"What  is  the  soul  of  man?  The  eternal  conflict  in 
the  soul  of  man  between  chaos,  whence  it  came,  and 
harmony,  whither  it  strives  irresistibly.  Falsehood,  as 
the  offspring  of  chaos,  and  Truth,  as  the  child  of  har- 
mony. The  triumph  of  truth  and  the  downfall  of 
falsehood. 

Third  Lecture 

the  explanation  of  the  sacred  formula  of  the 
iron  grate 

As  my  indulgent  reader  will  see,  justice  is  after  all 
not  an  empty  sound,  and  I  am  getting  a  great  reward 
for  my  sufferings.  But  not  daring  to  reproach  fate 
which  was  so  merciful  to  me,  I  nevertheless  do  not  feel 
that  sense  of  contentment  which,  it  would  seem,  I 
ought  to  feel.  True,  at  first  I  was  positively  happy, 
but  soon  my  habit  for  strictly  logical  reasoning,  the 
clearness  and  honesty  of  my  views,  gained  by  contem- 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      339 

plating  the  world  through  a  mathematically  correct 
grate,  have  led  me  to  a  series  of  disillusions. 

I  am  afraid  to  say  it  now  with  full  certainty,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  all  their  life  of  this  so-called  freedom 
is  a  continuous  self-deception  and  falsehood.  The  life 
of  each  of  these  people,  whom  I  have  seen  during  these 
days,  is  moving  in  a  strictly  defined  circle,  which  is 
just  as  solid  as  the  corridors  of  our  prison,  just  as 
closed  as  the  dial  of  the  watches  which  they,  in  the 
innocence  of  their  mind,  lift  every  minute  to  their  eyes, 
not  understanding  the  fatal  meaning  of  the  eternally 
moving  hand,  which  is  eternally  returning  to  its  place, 
and  each  of  them  feels  this,  even  as  the  circus  horse 
probably  feels  it,  but  in  a  state  of  strange  blindness 
each  one  assures  us  that  he  is  perfectly  free  and  mov- 
ing forward.  Like  the  stupid  bird  which  is  beating 
itself  to  exhaustion  against  the  transparent  glass  ob- 
stacle, without  understanding  what  it  is  that  obstructs 
its  way,  these  people  are  helplessly  beating  against  the 
walls  of  their  glass  prison. 

I  was  greatly  mistaken,  it  seems,  also  in  the  signifi- 
cance of  the  greetings  which  fell  to  my  lot  when  I  left 
the  prison.  Of  course  I  was  convinced  that  in  me  they 
greeted  the  representative  of  our  prison,  a  leader  hard- 
ened by  experience,  a  master,  who  came  to  them  only 
for  the  purpose  of  revealing  to  them  the  great  mystery 
of  purpose.  And  when  they  congratulated  me  upon 
the  freedom  granted  to  me  I  responded  with  thanks, 
not  suspecting  what  an  idiotic  meaning  they  placed  on 
the  word.  May  I  be  forgiven  this  coarse  expression, 
but  I  am  powerless  now  to  restrain  my  aversion  for 


340  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

their  stupid  life,  for  their  thoughts,  for  their  feelings. 

Foolish  hypocrites,  fearing  to  tell  the  truth  even 
when  it  adorns  them !  My  hardened  truthfulness  was 
cruelly  taxed  in  the  midst  of  these  false  and  trivial 
people.  Not  a  single  person  believed  that  I  was  never 
so  happy  as  in  prison.  Why,  then,  are  they  so  sur- 
prised at  me,  and  why  do  they  print  my  portraits? 
Are  there  so  few  idiots  that  are  unhappy  in  prison? 
And  the  most  remarkable  thing,  which  only  my  in- 
dulgent reader  will  be  able  to  appreciate,  is  this: 
Often  distrusting  me  completely,  they  nevertheless  sin- 
cerely go  into  raptures  over  me,  bowing  before  me, 
clasping  my  hands  and  mumbling  at  every  step,  **  Mas- 
ter!   Master!" 

If  they  only  profited  by  their  constant  lying — ^but, 
no;  they  are  perfectly  disinterested,  and  they  lie  as 
though  by  some  one's  higher  order;  they  lie  in  the 
fanatical  conviction  that  falsehood  is  in  no  way  differ- 
ent from  the  truth.  Wretched  actors,  even  incapable 
of  a  decent  makeup,  they  writhe  from  morning  till 
night  on  the  boards  of  the  stage,  and,  dying  the  most 
real  death,  suffering  the  most  real  sufferings,  they 
bring  into  their  deathly  convulsions  the  cheap  art  of 
the  harlequin.  Even  their  crooks  are  not  real;  they 
only  play  the  roles  of  crooks,  while  remaining  honest 
people;  and  the  role  of  honest  people  is  played  by 
rogues,  and  played  poorly,  and  the  public  sees  it,  but 
in  the  name  of  the  same  fatal  falsehood  it  gives  them 
wreaths  and  bouquets.  And  if  there  is  really  a 
talented  actor  who  can  wipe  away  the  boundary  be- 
tween truth  and  deception,  so  that  even  they  begin  to 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      341 

believe,  they  go  into  raptures,  call  him  great,  start  a 
subscription  for  a  monument,  but  do  not  give  any 
money.  Desperate  cowards,  they  fear  themselves  most 
of  all,  and  admiring  delightedly  the  reflection  of  their 
spuriously  made-up  faces  in  the  mirror,  they  howl  with 
fear  and  rage  when  some  one  incautiously  holds  up  the 
mirror  to  their  soul. 

My  indulgent  reader  should  accept  all  this  rela- 
tively, not  forgetting  that  certain  grumblings  are 
natural  in  old  age.  Of  course,  I  have  met  quite  a  num- 
ber of  most  worthy  people,  absolutely  truthful,  sin- 
cere, and  courageous;  I  am  proud  to  admit  that  I 
found  among  them  also  a  proper  estimate  of  my  per- 
sonality. With  the  support  of  these  friends  of  mine 
I  hope  to  complete  successfully  my  struggle  for  truth 
and  justice.  I  am  sufficiently  strong  for  my  sixty 
years,  and,  it  seems,  there  is  no  power  that  could  break 
my  iron  will. 

At  times  I  am  seized  with  fatigue  owing  to  their 
absurd  mode  of  life.  I  have  not  the  proper  rest  even 
at  night. 

The  consciousness  that  while  going  to  bed  I  may  ab- 
sent-mindedly have  forgotten  to  lock  my  bedroom  door 
compels  me  to  jump  from  my  bed  dozens  of  times  and 
to  feel  the  lock  with  a  quiver  of  horror. 

Not  long  ago  it  happened  that  I  locked  my  door  and 
hid  the  key  under  my  pillow,  perfectly  confident  that 
my  room  was  locked,  when  suddenly  I  heard  a  knock, 
then  the  door  opened,  and  my  servant  entered  with  a 
smile  on  his  face.  You,  dear  reader,  will  easily  under- 
stand the  horror  I  experienced  at  this  unexpected  visit 


342  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

— it  seemed  to  me  that  some  one  had  entered  my  soul. 
And  though  I  have  absolutely  nothing  to  conceal,  this 
breaking  into  my  room  seems  to  me  indecent,  to  say 
the  least. 

I  caught  a  cold  a  few  days  ago — ^there  is  a  terrible 
draught  in  their  windows — and  I  asked  my  servant  to 
watch  me  at  night.  In  the  morning  I  asked  him,  in 
jest: 

''Well,  did  I  talk  much  in  my  sleep?" 

' '  No,  you  didn  't  talk  at  all. ' ' 

"I  had  a  terrible  dream,  and  I  remember  I  even 
cried." 

"No,  you  smiled  all  the  time,  and  I  thought — ^what 
fine  dreams  our  Master  must  see ! " 

The  dear  youth  must  have  been  sincerely  devoted  to 
me,  and  I  am  deeply  moved  by  such  devotion  during 
these  painful  days. 

To-morrow  I  shall  sit  down  to  prepare  my  lectures. 
It  is  high  time ! 


CHAPTER  X 

MY  God !  "What  has  happened  to  me ?  I  do 
not  know  how  I  shall  tell  my  reader  about 
it.  I  was  on  the  brink  of  the  abyss,  I 
almost  perished.  What  cruel  temptations  fate  is  send- 
ing me!  Fools,  we  smile,  without  suspecting  any- 
thing, when  some  murderous  hand  is  already  lifted  to 
attack  us ;  we  smile,  and  the  very  next  instant  we  open 
our  eyes  wide  with  horror.  I — I  cried.  I  cried. 
Another  moment  and  deceived,  I  would  have  hurled 
myself  down,  thinking  that  I  was  flying  toward  the 
sky. 

It  turned  out  that  "the  charming  stranger"  who 
wore  a  dark  veil,  and  who  came  to  me  so  mysteriously 
three  times,  was  no  one  else  than  Mme.  N.,  my  former 
fiancee,  my  love,  my  dream  and  my  suffering. 

But  order!  order!  May  my  indulgent  reader  for- 
give the  involuntary  incoherence  of  the  preceding 
lines,  but  I  am  sixty  years  old,  and  my  strength  is  be- 
ginning to  fail  me,  and  I  am  alone.  My  unknown 
reader,  be  my  friend  at  this  moment,  for  I  am  not  of 
iron,  and  my  strength  is  beginning  to  fail  me.  Listen, 
my  friend;  I  shall  endeavour  to  tell  you  exactly  and 
in  detail,  as  objectively  as  my  cold  and  clear  mind  will 
be  able  to  do  it,  all  that  has  happened.  You  must  un- 
derstand that  which  my  tongue  may  omit. 

343 


344  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

I  was  sitting,  engaged  upon  the  preparation  of  my 
lecture,  seriously  carried  away  by  the  absorbing  work, 
when  my  servant  announced  that  the  strange  lady  in 
the  black  veil  was  there  again,  and  that  she  wished  to 
see  me.  I  confess  I  was  irritated,  that  I  was  ready  to 
decline  to  see  her,  but  my  curiosity,  coupled  with  my 
desire  not  to  offend  her,  led  me  to  receive  the  unex- 
pected guest.  Assuming  the  expression  of  majestic 
nobleness  with  which  I  usually  greet  my  visitors,  and 
softening  that  expression  somewhat  by  a  smile  in  view 
of  the  romantic  character  of  the  affair,  I  ordered  my 
servant  to  open  the  door. 

"Please  be  seated,  my  dear  guest,"  I  said  politely  to 
the  stranger,  who  stood  as  dazed  before  me,  still  keep- 
ing the  veil  on  her  face. 

She  sat  down. 

"Although  I  respect  all  secrecy,"  I  continued  jest- 
ingly, "I  would  nevertheless  ask  you  to  remove  this 
gloomy  cover  which  disfigures  you.  Does  the  human 
face  need  a  mask?" 

The  strange  visitor  declined,  in  a  state  of  agitation. 

"Very  well,  I'll  take  it  off,  but  not  now — ^later. 
First  I  want  to  see  you  well. ' ' 

The  pleasant  voice  of  the  stranger  did  not  call  forth 
any  recollections  in  me.  Deeply  interested  and  even 
flattered,  I  submitted  to  my  strange  visitor  all  the 
treasures  of  my  mind,  experience  and  talent.  With 
enthusiasm  I  related  to  her  the  edifying  story  of  my 
life,  constantly  illuminating  every  detail  with  a  ray  of 
the  Great  Purpose.  (In  this  I  availed  myself  partly 
of  the  material  on  which  I  had  just  been  working,  pre- 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      346 

paring  my  lectures.)  The  passionate  attention  with 
which  the  strange  lady  listened  to  my  words,  the  fre- 
quent, deep  sighs,  the  nervous  quiver  of  her  thin  fin- 
gers in  her  black  gloves,  her  agitated  exclamations — 
inspired  me. 

Carried  away  by  my  own  narrative,  I  confess,  I  did 
not  pay  proper  attention  to  the  queer  behaviour  of  my 
strange  visitor.  Having  lost  all  restraint,  she  now 
clasped  my  hands,  now  pushed  them  away,  she  cried 
and  availing  herself  of  each  pause  in  my  speech,  she 
implored : 

** Don't,  don't,  don't!  Stop  speaking!  I  can't 
listen  to  it!" 

And  at  the  moment  when  I  least  expected  it  she  tore 
the  veil  from  her  face,  and  before  my  eyes — before 
my  eyes  appeared  her  face,  the  face  of  my  love,  of  my 
dream,  of  my  boundless  and  bitter  sorrow.  Perhaps 
because  I  lived  all  my  life  dreaming  of  her  alone,  with 
her  alone  I  was  young,  with  her  I  had  developed  and 
grown  old,  with  her  I  was  advancing  to  the  grave — her 
face  seemed  to  me  neither  old  nor  faded — it  was 
exactly  as  I  had  pictured  it  in  my  dreams — it  seemed 
endlessly  dear  to  me. 

What  has  happened  to  me?  For  the  first  time  in 
tens  of  years  I  forgot  that  I  had  a  face — for  the  first 
time  in  tens  of  years  I  looked  helplessly,  like  a  young- 
ster, like  a  criminal  caught  red-handed,  waiting  for 
some  deadly  blow. 

"You  see!  You  see!  It  is  I.  It  is  I!  My  God, 
why  are  you  silent?     Don't  you  recognise  me?" 

Did  I  recognise  her?    It  were  better  not  to  have 


JJ46  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

known  that  face  at  all !  It  were  better  for  me  to  have 
grown  blind  rather  than  to  see  her  again ! 

*  *  Why  are  you  silent  ?  How  terrible  you  are !  You 
have  forgotten  me!'* 

"Madam—" 

Of  course,  I  should  have  continued  in  this  manner ; 
I  saw  how  she  staggered.  I  saw  how  with  trem- 
bling fingers,  almost  failing,  she  was  looking  for  her 
veil ;  I  saw  that  another  word  of  courageous  truth,  and 
the  terrible  vision  would  vanish  never  to  appear  again. 
But  some  stranger  within  me — not  I — not  I — uttered 
the  following  absurd,  ridiculous  phrase,  in  which,  de- 
spite its  chilliness,  rang  so  much  jealousy  and  hope-: 
less  sorrow: 

' '  Madam,  you  have  deceived  me.  I  don 't  know  you. 
Perhaps  you  entered  the  wrong  door,  I  suppose  your 
husband  and  your  children  are  waiting  for  you. 
Please,  my  servant  will  take  you  down  to  the  carriage." 

Could  I  think  that  these  words,  uttered  in  the  same 
stern  and  cold  voice,  would  have  such  a  strange  effect 
upon  the  woman's  heart?  With  a  cry,  all  the  bitter 
passion  of  which  I  could  not  describe,  she  threw  her- 
self before  me  on  her  knees,  exclaiming : 

"So  you  do  love  me!" 

Forgetting  that  our  life  had  already  been  lived,  that 
we  were  old,  that  all  had  been  ruined  and  scattered  like 
dust  by  Time,  and  that  it  can  never  return  again ;  for- 
getting that  I  was  grey,  that  ray  shoulders  were  bent, 
that  the  voice  of  passion  sounds  strangely  when  it 
comes  from  old  lips — I  burst  into  impetuous  re- 
proaches and  complaints. 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      347 

"Yes,  I  did  deceive  you!"  her  deathly  pale  lips  ut- 
tered.    "I  knew  that  you  were  innocent — " 

"Be  silent    Be  silent." 

"Everybody  laughed  at  me — even  your  friends,  your 
mother  whom  I  despised  for  it — all  betrayed  you. 
Only  I  kept  repeating :     *  He  is  innocent ! '  " 

Oh,  if  this  woman  knew  what  she  was  doing  to  me 
with  her  words!  If  the  trumpet  of  the  angel,  an- 
nouncing the  day  of  judgment,  had  resounded  at  my 
very  ear,  I  would  not  have  been  so  frightened  as  now. 
What  is  the  blaring  of  a  trumpet  calling  to  battle  and 
struggle  to  the  ear  of  the  brave  ?  It  was  as  if  an  abyss 
had  opened  at  my  feet.  It  was  as  if  an  abyss  had 
opened  before  me,  and  as  though  blinded  by  lightning, 
as  though  dazed  by  a  blow,  I  shouted  in  an  outburst 
of  wild  and  strange  ecstasy : 

"Be  silent!    I—" 

If  that  woman  were  sent  by  God,  she  would  have 
become  silent.  If  she  were  sent  by  the  devil,  she  would 
have  become  silent  even  then.  But  there  was  neither 
God  nor  devil  in  her,  and  interrupting  me,  not  per- 
mitting me  to  finish  the  phrase,  she  went  on : 

"No,  I  will  not  be  silent.  I  must  tell  you  all.  I 
have  waited  for  you  so  many  years.    Listen,  listen  1 ' ' 

But  suddenly  she  saw  my  face  and  she  retreated, 
seized  with  horror. 

' '  What  is  it  ?  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  Why 
do  you  laugh  ?  I  am  afraid  of  your  laughter !  Stop 
laughing!     Don't!     Don't!" 

But  I  was  not  laughing  at  all,  I  only  smiled  softly. 
And  then  I  said  very  seriously,  without  smiling : 


348  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

**I  am  smiling  because  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Tell 
me  about  yourself." 

And,  as  in  a  dream,  I  saw  her  face  and  I  heard  her 
soft  terrible  whisper : 

''You  know  that  I  love  you.  You  know  that  all  my 
life  I  loved  you  alone.  I  lived  with  another  and  was 
faithful  to  him.  I  have  children,  but  you  know  they 
are  all  strangers  to  me — he  and  the  children  and  I  my- 
self. Yes,  I  deceived  you,  I  am  a  criminal,  but  I  do 
not  know  how  it  happened.  He  was  so  kind  to  me, 
he  made  me  believe  that  he  was  convinced  of  your  in- 
nocence— ^later  I  learned  that  he  did  not  tell  the  truth, 
and  with  this,  just  think  of  it,  with  this  he  won  me." 

"You  lie!" 

*  *  I  swear  to  you.  For  a  whole  year  he  followed  me 
and  spoke  only  of  you.  One  day  he  even  cried  when  I 
told  him  about  you,  about  your  sufferings,  about  your 
love," 

*  *  But  he  was  lying ! ' ' 

"Of  course  he  was  lying.  But  at  that  time  he 
seemed  so  dear  to  me,  so  kind  that  I  kissed  him  on  the 
forehead.  Then  we  used  to  bring  you  flowers  to  the 
prison.  One  day  as  we  were  returning  from  you — 
listen — he  suddenly  proposed  that  we  should  go  out 
driving.    The  evening  was  so  beautiful — " 

"And  you  went!  How  did  you  dare  go  out  with 
him  ?  You  had  just  seen  my  prison,  you  had  just  been 
near  me,  and  yet  you  dared  go  with  him.    How  base ! ' ' 

"Be  silent.  Be  silent.  I  know  I  am  a  criminal. 
But  I  was  so  exhausted,  so  tired,  and  you  were  so  far 
away.    Understand  me." 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      349 

She  began  to  cry,  wringing  her  hands. 

"Understand  me.  I  was  so  exhausted.  And  he — 
he  saw  how  I  felt — and  yet  he  dared  kiss  me. ' ' 

"He  kissed  you!  And  you  allowed  him?  On  the 
lips?" 

"No,  no!    Only  on  the  cheek." 

"You  lie!" 

"No,  no.    I  swear  to  you." 

I  began  to  laugh. 

"You  responded?  And  you  were  driving  in  the 
forest — ^you,  my  fiancee,  my  love,  my  dream !  And  all 
this  for  my  sake?    Tell  me!     Speak!" 

In  my  rage  I  wrung  her  arms,  and  wriggling  like  a 
snake,  vainly  trying  to  evade  my  look,  she  whispered : 

*  *  Forgive  me ;  forgive  me. ' ' 

"How  many  children  have  you?" 

"Forgive  me." 

But  my  reason  forsook  me,  and  in  my  growing  rage 
I  cried,  stamping  my  foot : 

"How  many  children  have  you?  Speak,  or  I  will 
kill  you!" 

I  actually  said  this.  Evidently  I  was  losing  my  rea- 
son completely  if  I  could  threaten  to  kill-  a  helpless 
woman.  And  she,  surmising  apparently  that  my 
threats  were  mere  words,  answered  with  feigned  read- 
iness : 

"Kill  me!  You  have  a  right  to  do  it!  I  am  a 
criminal.  I  deceived  you.  You  are  a  martyr,  a  saint ! 
When  you  told  me — is  it  true  that  even  in  your 
thoughts  you  never  deceived  me — even  in  your 
thoughts!" 


350  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

And  again  an  abyss  opened  before  me.  Everything 
trembled,  everything  fell,  everything  became  an  ab- 
surd dream,  and  in  the  last  effort  to  save  my  extin- 
guishing reason  I  shouted : 

' '  But  you  are  happy !  You  cannot  be  unhappy ;  you 
have  no  right  to  be  unhappy !  Otherwise  I  shall  lose 
my  mind." 

But  she  did  not  understand.  With  a  bitter  laugh, 
with  a  senseless  smile,  in  which  her  suffering  mingled 
with  bright,  heavenly  joy,  she  said : 

"I  am  happy!  I — happy!  Oh,  my  friend,  only 
near  you  I  can  find  happiness.  From  the  moment  you 
left  the  prison  I  began  to  despise  my  home.  I  am 
alone  there ;  I  am  a  stranger  to  all.  If  you  only  knew 
how  I  hate  that  scoundrel!  You  are  sensible;  you 
must  have  felt  that  you  were  not  alone  in  prison,  that  I 
was  always  with  you  there — " 

**And  he?" 

"Be  silent!  Be  silent!  If  you  only  heard  with 
what  delight  I  called  him  scoundrel ! ' ' 

She  burst  into  laughter,  frightening  me  by  the  wild 
expression  on  her  face. 

"Just  think  of  it!  All  his  life  he  embraced  only  a 
lie.  And  when,  deceived,  happy,  he  fell  asleep,  I 
looked  at  him  with  wide-open  eyes,  I  gnashed  my  teeth 
softly,  and  I  felt  like  pinching  him,  like  sticking  him 
with  a  pin." 

She  burst  into  laughter  again.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
she  was  driving  wedges  into  my  brain.  Clasping  my 
head,  I  cried: 

"You  lie!    You  lie  to  me!" 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      351 

Indeed,  it  was  easier  for  me  to  speak  to  the  ghost 
than  to  the  woman.  What  could  I  say  to  her?  My 
mind  was  growing  dim.  And  how  could  I  repulse  her 
when  she,  full  of  love  and  passion,  kissed  my  hands, 
my  eyes,  my  face  ?  It  was  she,  my  love,  my  dream,  my 
bitter  sorrow ! 

"I  love  you!    I  love  you!" 

And  I  believed  her — I  believed  her  love.  I  believed 
everything.  And  once  more  I  felt  that  my  locks  were 
black,  and  I  saw  myself  young  again.  And  I  knelt 
before  her  and  wept  for  a  long  time,  and  whispered  to 
her  about  my  sufferings,  about  the  pain  of  solitude, 
about  a  heart  cruelly  broken,  about  offended,  dis- 
figured, mutilated  thoughts.  And,  laughing  and  cry- 
ing, she  stroked  my  hair.  Suddenly  she  noticed  that 
it  was  grey,  and  she  cried  strangely : 

"What  is  it?  And  life?  I  am  an  old  woman  al- 
ready." 

On  leaving  me  she  demanded  that  I  escort  Tier  to  the 
threshold,  like  a  young  man ;  and  I  did.  Before  going 
she  said  to  me : 

' '  I  am  coming  back  to-morrow.  I  know  my  children 
will  deny  me — my  daughter  is  to  marry  soon.  You 
and  I  will  go  away.    Do  you  love  me  ? " 

"I  do." 

"We  will  go  far,  far  away,  my  dear.  You  wanted 
to  deliver  some  lectures.  You  should  not  do  it.  I 
don't  like  what  you  say  about  that  iron  grate.  You 
are  exhausted,  you  need  »  rest.    Shall  it  be  so?" 

•Tes," 


S5S  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

"Oh,  I  forgot  my  veil.  Keep  it,  keep  it  as  a  re- 
membrance of  this  day.    My  dear!" 

In  the  vestibule,  in  the  presence  of  the  sleepy  porter, 
she  kissed  me.  There  was  the  odour  of  some  new  per- 
fume, unlike  the  perfume  with  which  her  letter  was 
scented.  And  her  coquettish  laugh  was  like  a  sob  as 
she  disappeared  behind  the  glass  door. 

That  night  I  aroused  my  servant,  ordered  him  to 
pack  our  things,  and  we  went  away.  I  shall  not  say 
where  I  am  at  present,  but  last  night  and  to-night  trees 
were  rustling  over  my  head  and  the  rain  was  beating 
against  my  windows.  Here  the  windows  are  small, 
and  I  feel  much  better.  I  wrote  her  a  rather  long  let- 
ter, the  contents  of  which  I  shall  not  reproduce.  I 
shall  never  see  her  again. 

But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  May  the  reader  pardon  these 
incoherent  questions.  They  are  so  natural  in  a  man 
in  my  condition.  Besides,  I  caught  an  acute  rheuma- 
tism while  travelling,  which  is  most  painful  and  even 
dangerous  for  a  man  of  my  age,  and  which  does  not 
permit  me  to  reason  calmly.  For  some  reason  or 
another  I  think  very  often  about  my  young  friend  K., 
who  went  to  an  untimely  grave.  How  does  he  feel  in 
his  new  prison  ? 

To-morrow  morning,  if  my  strength  will  permit  me, 
I  intend  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Warden  of  our  prison  and 
to  his  esteemed  wife.    Our  prison — 


CHAPTER  XI 

I  AM  profoundly  happy  to  inform  my  dear  reader 
that  I  have  completely  recovered  my  physical  as 
well  as  my  spiritual  powers.  A  long  rest  out  in 
the  country,  amid  nature's  soothing  beauties;  the 
contemplation  of  village  life,  which  is  so  simple  and 
bright;  the  absence  of  the  noise  of  the  city,  where 
hundreds  of  wind-mills  are  stupidly  flapping  their 
long  arms  before  your  very  nose,  and  finally  the  com- 
plete solitude,  undisturbed  by  anything — all  these 
have  restored  to  my  unbalanced  view  of  the  world  all 
its  former  steadiness  and  its  iron,  irresistible  firmness. 
I  look  upon  my  future  calmly  and  confidently,  and  al- 
though it  promises  me  nothing  but  a  lonely  grave  and 
the  last  journey  to  an  unknown  distance,  I  am  ready  to 
meet  death  just  as  courageously  as  I  lived  my  life, 
drawing  strength  from  my  solitude,  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  my  innocence  and  my  uprightness. 

After  long  hesitations,  which  are  not  quite  intelligi- 
ble to  me  now,  I  finally  resolved  to  establish  for  my- 
self the  system  of  our  prison  in  all  its  rigidness.  For 
that  purpose,  finding  a  small  house  in  the  outskirts  of 
the  city,  which  was  to  be  leased  for  a  long  term  of 
years,  I  hired  it.  Then  with  the  kind  assistance  of 
the  Warden  of  our  prison,  (I  cannot  express  my  grati- 
tude to  him  adequately  enough  in  words,)  I  invited  to 

353 


354.  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

the  new  place  one  of  the  most  experienced  jailers,  who 
is  still  a  young  man,  but  already  hardened  in  the 
strict  principles  of  our  prison.  Availing  myself  of  his 
instruction,  and  also  of  the  suggestions  of  the  obliging 
"Warden,  I  have  engaged  workmen  who  transformed 
one  of  the  rooms  into  a  cell.  The  measurements  as 
well  as  the  form  and  all  the  details  of  my  new,  and,  I 
hope,  my  last  dwelling  are  strictly  in  accordance  with 
my  plan.  My  cell  is  8  by  4  yards,  4  yards  high,  the 
walls  are  painted  grey  at  the  bottom,  the  upper  part 
of  the  walls  and  the  ceiling  are  white,  and  near  the 
ceiling  there  is  a  square  window  l^/^  by  II/2  yards,  with 
a  massive  iron  grate,  which  has  already  become  rusty 
with  age.  In  the  door,  locked  with  a  heavy  and  strong 
lock,  which  issues  a  loud  creak  at  each  turn  of  the  key, 
there  is  a  small  hole  for  observation,  and  below  it  a 
little  window,  through  which  the  food  is  brought  and 
received.  The  furnishing  of  the  cell :  a  table,  a  chair, 
and  a  cot  fastened  to  the  wall ;  on  the  wall  a  crucifix, 
my  portrait,  and  the  rules  concerning  the  conduct  of 
the  prisoners,  in  a  black  frame;  and  in  the  corner  a 
closet  filled  with  books.  This  last,  being  a  violation  of 
the  strict  harmony  of  my  dwelling,  I  was  compelled  to 
do  by  extreme  and  sad  necessity ;  the  jailer  positively 
refused  to  be  my  librarian  and  to  bring  the  books  ac- 
cording to  my  order,  and  to  engage  a  special  librarian 
seemed  to  me  to  be  an  act  of  unnecessary  eccentricity. 
Aside  from  this,  in  elaborating  my  plans,  I  met  with 
strong  opposition  not  only  from  the  local  popula- 
tion, which  simply  declared  me  to  be  insane,  but  even 
from  the  enlightened  people.    Even  the  Warden  eq^ 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      355 

deavoured  for  some  time  to  dissuade  me,  but  finally  he 
clasped  my  hand  warmly,  with  an  expression  of  sin- 
cere regret  at  not  being  in  a  position  to  offer  me  a 
place  in  our  prison. 

I  cannot  recall  the  first  day  of  my  confinement  with- 
out a  bitter  smile.  A  mob  of  impertinent  and  ignorant 
idlers  yelled  from  morning  till  night  at  my  window, 
with  their  heads  lifted  high  (my  cell  is  situated  in 
the  second  story),  and  they  heaped  upon  me  senseless 
abuse ;  there  were  even  efforts — to  the  disgrace  of  my 
townspeople — to  storm  my  dwelling,  and  one  heavy 
stone  almost  crushed  my  head.  Only  the  police,  which 
arrived  in  time,  succeeded  in  averting  the  catastrophe. 
!When,  in  the  evening,  I  went  out  for  a  walk,  hundreds 
of  fools,  adults  and  children,  followed  me,  shouting 
and  whistling,  heaping  abuse  upon  me,  and  even  hurl- 
ing mud  at  me.  Thus,  like  a  persecuted  prophet,  I 
wended  my  way  without  fear  amidst  the  maddened 
crowd,  answering  their  blows  and  curses  with  proud 
silence. 

What  has  stirred  these  fools  ?  In  what  way  have  I 
offended  their  empty  heads?  When  I  lied  to  them, 
they  kissed  my  hands ;  now,  when  I  have  re-established 
the  sacred  truth  of  my  life  in  all  its  strictness  and 
purity,  they  burst  into  curses,  they  branded  me  with 
contempt,  they  hurled  mud  at  me.  They  were  dis- 
turbed because  I  dared  to  live  alone,  and  because  I  did 
not  ask  them  for  a  place  in  the  "common  cell  for 
rogues."  How  difficult  it  is  to  be  truthful  in  this 
world ! 

True,  my  perseverance  and  firmness  finally  defeated 


366  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

them.  With  the  naivete  of  savages,  who  honour  all 
they  do  not  understand,  they  commenced,  in  the  second 
year,  to  bow  to  me,  and  they  are  making  ever  lower 
bows  to  me,  because  their  amazement  is  growing  ever 
greater,  their  fear  of  the  inexplicable  is  growing  ever 
deeper.  And  the  fact  that  I  never  respond  to  their 
greetings  fills  them  with  delight,  and  the  fact  that  I 
never  smile  in  response  to  their  flattering  smiles,  fills 
them  with  a  firm  assurance  that  they  are  guilty  before 
me  for  some  grave  wrong,  and  that  I  know  their  guilt. 
Having  lost  confidence  in  their  own  and  other  people's 
words,  they  revere  my  silence,  even  as  people  revere 
every  silence  and  every  mystery.  If  I  were  to  start  to 
speak  suddenly,  I  would  again  become  human  to  them 
and  would  disillusion  them  bitterly,  no  matter  what  I 
would  say ;  in  my  silence  I  am  to  them  like  their  eter- 
nally silent  God.  For  these  strange  people  would 
cease  believing  their  God  as  soon  as  their  God  would 
commence  to  speak.  Their  women  are  already  regard- 
ing me  as  a  saint.  And  the  kneeling  women  and  sick 
children  that  I  often  find  at  the  threshold  of  my  dwell- 
ing undoubtedly  expect  of  me  a  trifle — to  heal  them, 
to  perform  a  miracle.  Well,  another  year  or  two  will 
pass,  and  I  shall  commence  to  perform  miracles  as 
well  as  those  of  whom  they  speak  with  such  enthusiasm. 
Strange  people,  at  times  I  feel  sorry  for  them,  and  I 
begin  to  feel  really  angry  at  the  devil  who  so  skilfully 
mixed  the  cards  in  their  game  that  only  the  cheat 
knows  the  truth,  his  little  cheating  truth  about  the 
marked  queens  and  the  marked  kings.  They  bow  too 
low,  however,  and  this  binders  me  from  developing  a 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      857 

sense  of  mercy,  otherwise — smile  at  my  jest,  indulgent 
reader — I  would  not  restrain  myself  from  the  tempta- 
tion of  performing  two  or  three  small,  but  effective 
miracles. 

I  must  go  back  to  the  description  of  my  prison. 

Having  constructed  my  cell  completely,  I  offered  my 
jailer  the  following  alternative:  He  must  observe 
with  regard  to  me  the  rules  of  the  prison  regime  in  all 
its  rigidness,  and  in  that  case  he  would  inherit  all  my 
fortune  according  to  my  will,  or  he  would  receive  noth- 
ing if  he  failed  to  do  his  duty.  It  seemed  that  in  put- 
ting the  matter  before  him  so  clearly  I  would  meet  with 
no  difficulties.  Yet  at  the  very  first  instance,  when  I 
should  have  been  incarcerated  for  violating  some 
prison  regulation,  this  naive  and  timid  man  absolutely 
refused  to  do  it;  and  only  when  I  threatened  to  get 
another  man  immediately,  a  more  conscientious  jailer, 
was  he  compelled  to  perform  his  duty.  Though  he  al- 
ways locked  the  door  punctually,  he  at  first  neglected 
his  duty  of  watching  me  through  the  peephole;  and 
when  I  tried  to  test  his  firmness  by  suggesting  a 
change  in  some  rule  or  other  to  the  detriment  of  com- 
mon sense  he  yielded  willingly  and  quickly.  One 
day,  on  trapping  him  in  this  way,  I  said  to  him : 

*  'My  friend,  you  are  simply  foolish.  If  you  will  not 
watch  me  and  guard  me  properly  I  shall  run  away  to 
another  prison,  taking  my  legacy  along  with  me. 
What  will  you  do  then  ? ' ' 

I  am  happy  to  inform  you  that  at  the  present  time 
all  these  misunderstandings  have  been  removed,  and 
if  there  is  anything  I  can  complain  of  it  is  rather  ex- 


S88  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

eessive  strictness  than  mildness.  Now  that  my  jailer 
has  entered  into  the  spirit  of  his  position  this  honest 
man  treats  me  with  extreme  sternness,  not  for  the 
sake  of  the  profit  but  for  the  sake  of  the  principle. 
Thus,  in  the  beginning  of  this  week  he  incarcerated 
me  for  twenty-four  hours  for  violating  some  rule,  of 
which,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  was  not  guilty ;  and  protest- 
ing against  this  seeming  injustice  I  had  the  unpar- 
donable weakness  to  say  to  him : 

' '  In  the  end  I  will  drive  you  away  from  here.  You 
must  not  forget  that  you  are  my  servant. ' ' 

"Before  you  drive  me  away  I  will  incarcerate  you," 
replied  this  worthy  man. 

' '  But  how  about  the  money  ?  "  I  asked  with  astonish- 
ment. "Don't  you  know  that  you  will  be  deprived 
of  it?" 

"Do  I  need  your  money?  I  would  give  up  all  my 
own  money  if  I  could  stop  being  what  I  am.  But  what 
can  I  do  if  you  violate  the  rule  and  I  must  punish  you 
by  incarcerating  you  ? ' ' 

I  am  powerless  to  describe  the  joyous  emotion  which 
came  over  me  at  the  thought  that  the  consciousness  of 
duty  had  at  last  entered  his  dark  mind,  and  that  now, 
even  if  in  a  moment  of  weakness  I  wanted  to  leave  my 
prison,  my  conscientious  jailer  would  not  permit  me 
to  do  it.  The  spark  of  firmness  which  glittered  in  his 
round  eyes  showed  me  clearly  that  no  matter  where  I 
might  run  away  he  would  find  me  and  bring  me  back ; 
and  that  the  revolver  which  he  often  forgot  to  take  be- 
fore, and  which  he  now  cleans  every  day,  would  do  iX^ 
work  in  the  event  I  decided  to  vvm  ^way, 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      559 

And  for  the  first  time  in  all  these  years  I  fell  asleep 
on  the  stone  floor  of  my  dark  cell  with  a  happy  smile, 
realising  that  my  plan  was  crowned  with  complete 
success,  passing  from  the  realm  of  eccentricity  to  the 
domain  of  stern  and  austere  reality.  And  the  fear 
which  I  felt  while  falling  asleep  in  the  presence  of 
my  jailer,  my  fear  of  his  resolute  look,  of  his  revolver ; 
my  timid  desire  to  hear  a  word  of  praise  from  him, 
or  to  call  forth  perhaps  a  smile  on  his  lips,  re-echoed 
in  my  soul  as  the  harmonious  clanking  of  my  eternal 
and  last  chains. 

Thus  I  pass  my  last  years.  As  before,  my  health 
is  sound  and  my  free  spirit  is  clear.  Let  some  call  me 
a  fool  and  laugh  at  me ;  in  their  pitiful  blindness  let 
others  regard  me  as  a  saint  and  expect  me  to  perform 
miracles ;  an  upright  man  to  some  people,  to  others — 
a  liar  and  a  deceiver — I  myself  know  who  I  am,  and 
I  do  not  ask  them  to  understand  me.  And  if  there 
are  people  who  will  accuse  me  of  deception,  of  base- 
ness, even  of  the  lack  of  simple  honour — for  there 
are  scoundrels  who  are  convinced  to  this  day  that  I 
committed  murder — no  one  will  dare  accuse  me  of 
cowardice,  no  one  will  dare  say  that  I  could  not  per- 
form my  painful  duty  to  the  end.  From  the  begin- 
ning till  the  end  I  remained  firm  and  unbribable; 
and  though  a  bugbear,  a  fanatic,  a  dark  horror  to 
some  people,  I  may  awaken  in  others  a  heroic  dream 
of  the  infinite  power  of  man. 

I  have  long  discontinued  to  receive  visitors,  and 
with  the  death  of  the  Warden  of  our  prison,  my  only 
true  friend,  whom  I  visited  occasionally,  my  last  tie 


S60  THE  CRUSHED  FLOWER 

with  this  world  was  broken.  Only  I  and  my  ferocious 
jailer,  who  watches  every  movement  of  mine  with 
mad  suspicion,  and  the  black  grate  which  has  caught 
in  its  iron  embrace  and  muzzled  the  infinite — this  is 
my  life.  Silently  accepting  the  low  bows,  in  my  cold 
estrangement  from  the  people  I  am  passing  my  last 
road. 

I  am  thinking  of  death  ever  more  frequently,  but 
even  before  death  I  do  not  bend  my  fearless  look. 
"Whether  it  brings  me  eternal  rest  or  a  new  unknown 
and  terrible  struggle,  I  am  humbly  prepared  to  ac- 
cept it. 

Farewell,  my  dear  reader!  Like  a  vague  phan- 
tom you  appeared  before  my  eyes  and  passed,  leav- 
ing me  alone  before  the  face  of  life  and  death.  Do 
not  be  angry  because  at  times  I  deceived  you  and 
lied — ^you,  too,  would  have  lied  perhaps  in  my  place. 
Nevertheless  I  loved  you  sincerely,  and  sincerely 
longed  for  your  love;  and  the  thought  of  your  sym- 
pathy for  me  was  quite  a  support  to  me  in  my  mo- 
ments and  days  of  hardship.  I  am  sending  you  my 
last  farewell  and  my  sincere  advice.  Forget  about 
my  existence,  even  as  I  shall  henceforth  forget  about 
yours  forever. 


A  deserted  field,  overgrown  with  high  grass,  devoid 
of  an  echo,  extends  like  a  deep  carpet  to  the  very 
fence  of  our  prison,  whose  majestic  outlines  subdue 
my  imagination  and  my  mind.  When  the  dying  sun 
illumines  it  with  its  last  rays,  and  our  prison,  all  in 
red,  stands  like  a  queen,  like  a  martyr,  with  the  dark 


"MAN  WHO  FOUND  THE  TRUTH"      361 

wounds  of  its  grated  windows,  and  the  sun  rises 
silently  and  proudly  over  the  plain — with  sorrow,  like 
a  lover,  I  send  my  complaints  and  my  sighs  and  my 
tender  reproach  and  vows  to  her,  to  my  love,  to  my 
dream,  to  my  bitter  and  last  sorrow.  I  wish  I  could 
forever  remain  near  her,  but  here  I  look  back — and 
black  against  the  fiery  frame  of  the  sunset  stands  my 
jailer,  stands  and  waits. 

With  a  sigh  I  go  back  in  silence,  and  he  moves  be- 
hind me  noiselessly,  about  two  steps  away,  watching 
every  move  of  mine. 

Our  prison  is  beautiful  at  sunset. 


Acknowledgment  is  due  to  The  New  York  "  Times,"  The 
New  York  "  World "  and  "  The  Independent,"  for  their  per- 
mission to  reproduce  some  of  these  stories. 

Heeman  Bebn stein. 


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